The warmth of his hand.

We were at the park a few minutes before midnight. There were a few people around; not surprising because the town festival is just around the corner. He sat on a bench with my bag in tow, so I sat beside him. He was in a gray hoodie, black pair of shorts, and flip-flops. I was in a red tee, coupled with a gray cardigan, a pair of jeans, and sneakers.

I jokingly said, "You seem to have just stepped out of your room."

He smiled at me. "My mom wouldn't believe me if I said I was going here at this time." He handed me a plastic bag containing Gatorade, a couple of caramel biscuits, and a chocolate bar.

"Again? You are really spoiling me."

"That's fine. Of course, it's for you."

I set it on the other side of the bench, then turned my attention to him. "Thanks again, yeobong."

He became serious. "You know what are other ways to create electricity, yeobong?"

Puzzled, I shook my head. "No, yeobong. What will?"

He reached for my hand and interlaced his fingers with mine. "This, yeobong."

As he gripped firmly, my slender fingers found their own spaces to rest at. They say that the gap between the fingers of the hand is for another person to fill in. That's exactly what I felt feeling his gentle hold.

Electricity? Maybe an exaggeration from him, but I definitely felt something stirred inside me. It's like I'm filled with a happiness I can't describe that wanted to puke? That kind of feeling. Weird feeling. Weird, but a wonderful feeling, nonetheless. Maybe this was what they call a spark. A spark from a heat, or a warmth. The warmth of his hand.