the stranger spins a story across the city from where they sit, his fingers tucked against her palm. she lets herself get lost in the false memories, snapshots of movie stills in a parallel universe. “ you don’t get tired of trying, ” she agrees, tilting her head in a small smile, tender and knowing. delilah would say this, “ you don’t have to, you know that. ” fingertips catch on the one tracing patterns into her pulse point, tangling them properly in a gesture so fluid and loose it looks like muscle memory, a default state of being. danbi wonders what she’d say, herself. “ i’m not going anywhere. ”
her drink is floral sweet with a tinge of spice, the mouthful she takes going down smooth in the silence when the other takes a breath, searching his eyes for the next thread of their story to unravel. “ i liked the ice, ” she says, “ winter’s always been my favourite season. ” a slow blink towards the windows of the bar, wistfulness dancing across her features, “ but you get cold so easily. ” danbi lifts two fingers to press teasingly against his still-red nose, the gesture so peculiar it becomes affectionate and laughs, light and easy. “ don’t give in to me so often, ” she scolds, tenderness colouring her words as if they’re retracing conversation steps, crystalline lattices of what was and isn’t said. “ so we’ll stay in, tomorrow, where it’s warm ” she murmurs, voice low with a promise she won’t keep, “ and i’ll distract you from the sunrise, too. ”
the movie reel spins to a stop at the bar, tints it the rosy hue of obscure foreign films that believe too much in colour theory. blue turns to purple, lilac sky arcing over as the years begin the age-old routine of changing hands. “ together, ” she repeats, voice a little more certain than his, like she can’t imagine any other state, can’t imagine having never known the man in front of her. “ a good end to the day, and this year. another one together? ” she tilts her head towards the entrance, as if to reference the festivities outside. the two of them stay where they are, ensconced in this indulgent mimesis of passing the year together, untouched by everything but their words.
they’re playing pretend, all just make-believe. the wool of his scarf is scratchy against her skin, old radiator leaking an uneven heat into the bar, the stranger’s chilled fingers on her nape, shouting from outside clear enough through the windows as the countdown begins. ten, nine, eight. there’s a musk from the walls that artificial air freshener hasn’t hidden, some variation of mint from the stranger when she leans in. just fantasy, she tells herself. the lips against hers are warm.
she makes it so easy to separate from reality.
for just a moment he isn’t himself, the burdens of his daily life dissipated into the ether, the job, the drugs, the money, the friends, family, all of it shrouded, gone into the back of his mind behind layers of fantasy, the soft hum of music broken up by the voices of bar patrons, the vibrations of excitement beginning to creep into the atmosphere. it’s electric, it’s hard not to get caught up in it, so many things happening at once and he’s pretending he’s at all a part of it, as if this is really his life, his plans, ( his fingers pressed warm from her neck through her hair, searching her face as if his life truly rests there ) and of course, her. she’s the centerpiece of all of this, the heroine, the lead girl. she’s who he can spend the next six months dreaming about, dark hair and long eyelashes, an easy smile. she goes with his stories, melts into them as if she too would love nothing more than to live their fake life. for a moment he finds himself so caught up he almost believes it to his core, a soft laugh past his lips, fond, fingers running through her hair, pressing to the side of her face, an intimate, private smile.
from a distance they’re exactly what they pretend to be, a pair, caught up in each other, preparing for the new years kiss as if they’d done it a hundred times, and perhaps, he muses, delilah and simon have. the real them, out there somewhere, anchored here. perhaps memories of amsterdam’s past haunting them, possessing them, it’s the only thing that could explain such sensations, the feeling heavy and pounding in his chest as if he truly knows her, is truly and wholly, earnestly hers. how heartbreaking, how unsound. the way the little voice in his head sat in the back corner, scratching, banging, begging to be heard. it was warning him that this was, though fun, though a truly full, truly temporary happiness, it was going to hurt so much more to go to bed alone tonight. it was going to feel like a departing of a soul, because in the moment, a dewy, tender heart grew next to his own, a memory of the place they both came to — alone. oh to wake up in an empty hotel bed tomorrow, to pack his luggage and return home, to seoul, to the skeleton of his abandoned apartment.
but he wasn’t there yet, and she was still here, and he still wasn’t him, and so with the mantra of numbers playing around them he pulls towards her, a secretive smile in the kiss, his hands on either side of her face, pulling away slightly in a laugh only to press together again. as if they’ve done it a thousand times. as if it’s their very first — somehow both of these things at once, as the new years rings around them, the staccato of breathing, moving chests, the exploding of fireworks and the chatter of bar patrons, shuffling to step outside to watch them unfold, a blast of cool air, sending shivers with the opening of the pub door. though, perhaps, a good cover to the chills he already had, pulling away only a face length, warm breath from human mouths fanning the distance, the blush in her cheeks telling him that they bleed the same, two real, tangible people, meeting in their own surrealist world.
“ happy new year, “ he says, thumb running soft against her face, from jaw to cheekbone and back again, drawing patterns, until he remembers the curve even when she’s no longer there, “ and to another one together. “
