There’s no immediate reaction following the poem’s final words. The poet created a void in this small space within the city, and the silence felt heavy, as if to pay respect to the woman’s word. Jimin rewinds the last sentence of the poem and replays it within his memory, simply enjoying the impalpable gift she gave. He wanted to keep the poem that reminded him of legends and stubborn garden weeds. He wanted to remember it so he could repeat it to himself when the world grew large and intimating. It would be a source of strength, he was certain of his, and drank more of his coffee, happy that it still retained some heat, though it was now lukewarm.
He doesn’t leave with the rest of the group. Usually he would follow the natural course of action, however now he loitered at the corner, distracted by the myriad of thoughts that followed the poem’s end. Jimin heard the continuation of footsteps, noticed that each person’s walk carried a different noise from the heavy strides of young men to the harsh short clicks of high heels, but aside from acknowledging that he was stuck in an area with far too many people the attention he gave them was minimal. Instead he visualized fire birds, ashes, and the flowers that sprung through the ravines of concrete.
As always, it was a poor decision to forget his surroundings.
His heart stuttered, racing when a familiar voice woke him from his attempt at thinking deeply. The noise coming from his throat was unmanly, embarrassing, and brought a red tint to his cheeks – unfortunately the blood cells weren’t roused merely from the cold weather. No doubt it was the poet that was speaking to him of all people, and Jimin’s fingers tightened around the fragile cup, bringing a crease to the cardboard based material. Did she think of him as some kind of awful stalker? Not that she would be completely wrong, he had sought her out, but…
He forced himself to swallow the mouthful of coffee.
“Well…about that.” Jimin listened to himself stutter, and by the time he got the courage to look from the ground and to the poet he was convinced that he was now having an outer body experience. His heart was no longer racing, but he could feel it pound in his chest. “Uh…I’m fine. When I think, I don’t really move much.” No – he despaired mentally – that just made him sound like an idiot, but the godforsaken explanation left his head before he could rethink it. “I mean – !” He tried to save himself by back tracking, but it was too late. Defensive body language is what got him in the end, when he let go of his coffee cup as his hands raised to create a physical barrier, his palms facing her in that terrible stance that might as well say ‘please don’t call the cops, I’m completely harmless’.
The cup fell to the sidewalk, the impact forcing the lid off and the liquid out, some of it soaking into the edges of his jeans.
Horrified, the blood began to drain from his face, blanching his skin as if he had suddenly gone deceased. It’s all over now, he thought, unable to form words or even begin to apologize.
