» i’m someone i’ve never met
there’s a soft tickle growing at the back of her throat. it forces in a breath of tropical breeze (the product of chemistry packed into a 375 mL aerosol can) from stale air into her lungs. she imagines she can feel all twenty-four bones of her rib-cage expanding as it does. (she doesn’t.) what she does feel is the corners of her eyes crinkling (her picture of the world turning a watery blur), the muscles in her back tightening (shifting bones and contracting sinew beneath the layers skin) and the chain breaking, with a stiffening yawn.
one for which, she’s quick to blush for soon after. (and one for which, she’s shooting a daggering glare in the direction of unabashed chuckling from the back of the store not a second later.)
there’s a certain banality in repetition, she thinks, catching herself in the midst of a second yawn. and while there may be a buzzing of a million neurons in her head, her mind is oddly silent - teetering between efficiency and automation. for she had, in the absence of her own cognizance, built up somewhat of a daily rhythm, in which she occupies most of her waking hours managing the comic book store. and on most days, she doesn’t mind it; she does love her job after all. but on other days (like this one), it’s difficult just waiting for the work day to be over.
8:28 pm. chalk up a smile at the register. turn away to produce a scowl. breathe in hints of red pepper paste in still air, ignore the pinch in the pit of your stomach as you do. glare at the (seemingly broken) clock on the wall. pray that pinch doesn’t turn into a growl.
8:58 pm. calm your wandering fingers, keep busy with the shop. ignore the urge to stay idle. don’t stare at the ticking clock. fail. break out a grin. two more minutes. count to seconds.
9:25 pm. breathe in hints of smoke (from sticks of tobacco and pipes of automobiles) that lingers about decrepit seoul, ignore the burning itch in your lungs as you do. feel a prickling at the back of your neck. guards up. push your features up into a smile, and turn.
it’s a familiar face that she greets - a tuff of black over dark hooded eyes. “oh, you’re still here.” the sharp edges of her up-pulled lips are softening, the slim digits she’s tucked into a fist are loosening. “are you hungry? because i’m starving.” standing close to six feet and just inches apart from herself, he would have made for an intimidating sight, had it not been for the air and the presence he surrounds himself in that speaks more of naiveté than dominance. “how about we get something to eat?”
