April 1, 2007

Kim Jongin is running late for Lee Taemin’s wedding. He had been up perfecting a choreography his mentor had taught him. Running a hand through his already-pushed-back black hair, he thinks, if it’s any consolation it was for his future. But this doesn’t work; it doesn’t rid him of the guilt he feels, rubbing him raw at his core. He was going to miss a good friend’s wedding and for what? For his future? It’s much too selfish for his taste.

Drumming his fingers against the car’s interior, he looks ahead and sees that the church is just two to three blocks away. If he leaves now, he’d probably make it in time for the kiss. The run would probably ruin his suit (not to mention his brown longwings), but it’s not like he had any other choice. As an act of desperation, he throws the driver (who shouts, “Hey! That’s not right!”) some of his cash that he thinks is enough, jumps off the cab and sprints through the busy streets of Seoul, jammed with traffic and spring writhing in.

*

For the fourth time this evening, Jongin cranes his neck, scaling the white tent for any sign of Sehun but all he sees are men ogling down low necklines and women trapped in reverie—eyes clouded with thoughts of their own wedding. It was getting rather late but the program droned on. Jongin tries to keep himself preoccupied—despite the obvious fact that he was beginning to grow bored—by recalling their choreography until his hunger for a cigarette deepened. And so with a crystal champagne in hand, he left the tent that boomed with music and shone with lights.

Outside, the wind is tender, gently fondling his locks and invisibly engulfing him. The moon generously shone before them tonight, full and perfectly spherical. He loosens his tie and s his suit, simultaneously taking a sip from his glass. He then puts it on top of one of the exquisite, lavender high tables for the cocktails. Pulling out a cigarette from his inner coat pocket, he ponders on his own wedding. How would it look like? Would he invite hundreds of guests? Would he spend millions of won for wine and caterers? Would he be marrying solely for love? And would he gaze upon his bride with tears on his eyes as bliss overtook his cognition? He looks back and watches the newly wedded couple from afar, preparing to gyrate through their first dance as husband and wife to Elvis Costello’s She, eyes welling with pure joy, mouths curling with vivacity.

He shakes his head, as if to say “nope, not now” a silhouette of a smile faint in his lips. Suddenly, time stops because before him is a white figure that hooked his stare.  He sees her, in a floral lace tutu dress, walking by the pond that is faintly lit by the sublime reflection of the moon, watching the swans all cream-colored with tulle underneath that reminds him of a modern-day ballerina. Such a picturesque spectacle.

She
May be the face I can't forget
The trace of pleasure or regret
May be my treasure or the price I have to pay

Breathtaking, he thought as his jaw dropped at the sight of her, his cigarette crudely dangling between his plump, cracked lips. For him, women had always been such lovely creatures, all of them. But she in particular was just different, he was entranced not because she was beautiful but because she answered the very question he posed before himself a while ago. Because right at that moment, he knew.

She
May be the re