Eat

I get up fairly early the next morning, around six. I don’t walk into the living room, however, until eight-thirty. The room is empty, and the dorm quiet except for the TV. Curious, I plop down on the couch, excited to see Harry Potter. And more than that—it’s in English.

“Yay!” I clap, giggling to myself.

Just then, Taemin walks out of his room, a bottle of banana milk in his hand. Man, that stuff must be pretty good.

He grins cheekily at me, walking to the other side of the couch and settling easily. We watch together, his eyes tracing over the Korean subtitles intently. I can’t help but be awed by such substantial differences in the way he acts and how he dances.

After the battle I had a bit of a sour attitude. I grumbled to myself and evaluated people and didn’t look at Taemin from both embarrassment and anger. Lucy laughed at me, but allowed me to my wounds.

When we got to the apartment last night, the boys were all eating (again) and playing around, lounging about in exhaustion from their day. Before I’d gone to bed, I’d held up a fist to Taemin, keeping my eyes down in embarrassment. When he bunked his with mine, I glanced up to see an easy smile across his face. Then, suddenly, it seemed as though everything had gone perfectly right in the world.

And it had stayed that way since. I didn’t dream last night, which was the strangest blessing I’ve received in the past two years. Maybe Taemin SHINee, MBLAQ, Lucy, and Rain are the strange blessing.

Just as the phoenix heals Harry’s arm, my stomach growls loudly, filling the peaceful silence with the grumblings of my humanities. Taemin smiles at me, laughs and covers his mouth with the back of his hand.

I make my way to the kitchen, and as I pass Taemin he grabs my wrist, sending shivers down my body. His touch is warm and it pulls me in, inviting. I stare down at him, hoping that he can’t see what he’s doing to me. His smile is endearingly oblivious, “Let’s go!”

Tilting my head in confusion, I ask, “Eat?”

He nods, happy that we’re communicating, “Yes.”

I grin, holding up a finger, before running to my room to change.

Jeans and a tank top with a half-zipped sweater seem the safest, and I slip on my ratty, black, faded, low-cut Nikes over SHINee-socked feet (a gift from Onew after he tripped over me at the park yesterday). I slip about ₩10,000 in my pocket and out the door we are.

He takes me to a kimchi place. It isn’t as horrible as Lucy described, but still isn’t something I’m accustomed to. I’m so grateful that he and I are somehow managing to communicate, though, the food tastes like the best thing I’ve ever had.

By my second bite, we start a game. We point to random objects we see, and the other person tells us what they are in their native tongue. Because his English is considerably better than my Korean, I’ve mostly been the one learning words. Earlier he did somehow manage to ask me how to say ‘checkered’ in English, however.

I haven’t had time to do much research on Korean culture, and I would hate to mess anything up, so I follow his lead—from what he uses to eat what, to the pace at which he eats. There’s a comfortable silence for a few moments, and I take the opportunity to steal a peek at my achingly attractive companion, though his handsomeness is somewhat covered by his disguise. It’s fairly simple, a hood pulled over his head, no skinny jeans, and blue contacts. Because his hair isn’t black, he sort of resembles a foreigner, from a distance. So far I’ve been the only one getting strange looks.

I stop eating for a moment, resting my chopsticks upright in the rice bowl and admire my surroundings. Taemin, however, stops, staring at my chopsticks with a strange expression.

Immediately I put them exactly where they’d been before I ate, ducking my head. When I look up again, he’s isn’t moving, but I can see he wants to say something—and obviously doesn’t know how. Finally, he seems a bit hesitant, but says, “Don’t do that.”

I duck my head, “Mianhae.”

“It’s…” he’s silent, so I look up, curious. He seems to be searching for something—something specific. Before, “It’s all good.”

And I think angels start crying.

We finish our meal in awkward silence, as I spend the rest of said meal mentally chastising myself for mucking up my first real outing in Korea.

Taemin pays for it, and even though I pull out my money, he just shoves it back to me.

When we walk out, he grabs my hand almost instantly, intertwining our fingers, and then runs.

I almost fall at first, because I received no warning, but once I catch my feet I allow myself to be dragged around, on a very important mission, it seems.

When he finally does stop, I can barely breathe. He’s panting, but his smile is easy and wide, mischievous, almost. It’s late November, and it’s achingly cold today. I can see our heavy breath in chilly Seoul air.

I unconsciously note that our hands are still interlocked, but he’s warm, so I won’t take my hand away unless he does.

We’re at a pojangmacha—or a street vendor. A place, sometimes on wheels, that sells food. Key taught me that one yesterday. He talks with woman pleasantly as she makes something resembling pancakes. He pulls out his money, but I quickly shove mine towards him, and he stares at me with a strange smile before taking the money.

The woman eyes me, and I realize how strange I must look—a foreigner. Nevertheless, she takes the money and sets two of the pancakes on a cardboard plate type thing, and Taemin turns excitedly to me. He holds up the pancake, and makes a motion for me to open my mouth.

I’m afraid, and for a moment I consider declining. But then I see his face, so earnest, and I open my mouth.

It’s delicious. It’s a pastry of sorts, I guess. The dough is perfect and warm, the inside filled with layers of sweetness--peanuts, honey, cinnamon. I almost moan at the shockingly good flavor. He laughs lightly, and I know he can see the euphoria written across my face.

“Good, right?” He says with a smile. We move to a bench as I savor the bite. He stares at me for a moment, then points to it and says, “Hodduk.”

I try out the name for myself, smiling at him as he does me, until we’re both just smiling at one another and the hodduk is getting cold.

We finish the dessert in peace, ignoring others and simply enjoying being around another. I’m thirsty, but I don’t say anything. Maybe because I don’t know if he’ll understand me, or maybe because I don’t want to bother him.

It doesn’t matter, though, because then he pulls me to a convenient store, and buys two bottles of what I already recognize as banana milk.

He opens one, and I expect him to down half of it, but instead he s it ate me, smiling and watching until I drink it.

I sip, and then stare up at the most beautiful boy on Earth. And I know that even if this drink tasted like sewage, I wouldn't be able to say anything other than, “Perfect.”