March 30, 2011

“Oh hey!” Park Chanyeol says, turning around as Luhan called him out. They exchange greetings, the traditional how-are-yous, the half-hearted it’s-good-to-see-yous and the ever-charming you-look-greats. This afternoon, Luhan came home from work just as he did any other day; only he brought news of dinner with Chanyeol and Sehun.  At first, Hyunsu was reluctant, a sudden wave of paranoia deluging her. A year ago, her husband was murdered while she was permanently desecrated just minutes before untimely meeting the two. Luckily, before her demons could say no for her, she bolted to her room to prepare, surprising Luhan who again, expected otherwise.

“Shall we? Sehun’s on his way.” Chanyeol initiates while tucking his phone back into his pocket. There wasn’t much change in Park Chanyeol. His thin mouth still splits his face in two whenever he smiles.

“Yes.” Luhan fervently replies, his bright, old smile back, stamped on his face. He puts a hand behind his sister, ushering her toward the restaurant that glowed with extravagance and dazzled for the elite.

Upon entering, Hyunsu is immediately entranced by the chandeliers, designed to give out the illusion of floating, each of them unique in form much like a snowflake, its crystals iridescent, scintillating and kaleidoscopic. The patrons were no different, men and woman of all ages in fine suits and dresses, cuff links gold and necklaces diamond. Laughing through cream table napkins, passing gossip from one table to another, flirting with a stranger that sat across the room, how petty. For a while, as the three walked to their table, humanity disgusted Hyunsu that she wagers not one of them know the danger the world holds. Here there were, sipping on the most expensive champagne, devouring the best meat in Asia and dining with the gods, innocent of the sin they obliviously commit: vanity, the root of it all. Blinded by their riches, it indefinitely cripples their judgment. The woman stood there for a while, in the midst of ostentation, wondering if any of them thought they could bring their gold and lucre to the grave.

“The world’s grandiose façade will not last long, I assure you.” A voice suddenly interrupts.

She turns and is met with a jagged-face, chin, nose, jaws and cheekbones so sharp one could cut himself—carved into perfection, chiseled to refinement. His eyes haven’t changed; despite the discrete but veiled exhaustion, the blue rings underneath and the lines that barely left the space between his eyebrows, they glimmered with audacity, shrewd and sagacious but incredibly stunning. Now blonde and pushed-back, his hair—though radical—gave out a sense of transformation, a metamorphosis. As for his mouth, it is still pursed as it had always been, pink but chapped. He wore a sleek, black suit, heightening his exuberance, profusely glowing with allure and glamour, astutely but effectively o