La petit mort

Haunting the ancient city like a ghost of days long past,
the man in the fedora lightly brushed a non-existent speck of dust
off the sleeve of his wool coat before dissolving into the mist,
leaving behind only questions.

The tall boy lets his eyes run over the words on the page, little valleys and hills of black type font on creamy paper, fingers running smoothly over the spine as he comes to the end of the chapter and lets the book fall closed with a sharp snap. Dust floats up into the air, tiny worlds jarred out of their spheres of existence, rearranging themselves like parallel universes twinkling in the sunlight.

"Hi." A voice appears to his side, his exhalation stirring the air and setting the trajectories of the worlds awry. The boy inclines his head slightly, but does not acknowledge the intruder.

"You're Jongin, right?" The voice is persistent, melodious and yet somehow slightly nasal. It will not be dissuaded. Jongin slips the book back onto the shelf, marking its position in his memory.

"Yes," he says, arranging a smile onto his face before turning to smile magnanimously at the shorter boy, holding a stack of book in his arms. The cover on the top reads The Marquis de Sade. Jongin's smile becomes slightly less glazed.

"Kyungsoo said you know all the good books," the boy says. His hair is curly, like a poodle. Jongin feels like touching it.

"That depends on what you like," he replies instead, tucking his hands into his pockets and looking at the clock. Dance practice in fifteen minutes.

"I like things where the murderer gets away," the boy says. "I'm Jongdae by the way."

Jongin eyes Jongdae speculatively. There's not time right now, but. . .

"Meet me at the library tomorrow," he says, and pauses for a moment, watching Jongdae's eyes brighten. It's interesting. "Five o'clock, the foreign fiction section."

Jongdae is grinning widely as Jongin walks away between the rows of shelves, his lips turning upwards at the corners like the Cheshire Cat. He pauses, foot raised slightly, hovering over the threshold of the bookstore door, to ask a question.

"What do you think about French?"

"The food or the books?" Jongdae asks, but Jongin is gone.

That night, lying in bed, Jongdae remembers Jongin's smile, the sharpness of the lines. He imagines leaning forward, lip brushing against lip, teeth against skin. Jongin's mouth tastes like rust.