darkmay
The familiar voice of the waitress who was standing near his table had him listening again. An exchange of money for coffee, he realized, after she said the amount that was owed. $4.19? They were awfully overpriced. He hadn’t even intended to remember their menu and the prices, but the numbers and words stuck in his head as if they belonged. It helps the headache…
He caught her gaze immediately upon her pushing the cup of coffee towards him. The scent of the coffee was as bitter and strong as he knew it tasted - dark roasted black without cream or milk. He tilted his head away slightly to avoid the steam that was touching his skin, swallowing down his words. Unless momentary blindness is what you’re after, then–… Her lips kept moving - and it was fine, because he didn’t let himself hear a thing. Instead, he took his time to memorize her features. She was ordinary looking - but far more fresh than anyone else here, effortlessly put together with minimal makeup.
It had become a habit to casually pick a person’s facial features apart upon meeting them. He needed to remember the people that spoke to him, and of the people that surrounded him as much as he possibly could. None of this was out of genuine interest, but rather a hypersensitivity that he was forced to learn, which had now become a part of him. He didn’t need to make sure to be aware - he simply was aware of those he came across more than twice, and those that frequently spoke to him or saw him.
There was a slight shift in his air, and he felt almost weightless again as he let his muscles relax - face, shoulders, hands. He rested his hand back down on the table where his menu was, letting her voice slowly drown out by the cafe noise. A headache was a headache, and it would pass. Nevertheless, it had been a mistake to come here, and he briefly contemplated walking out in the rain. His uncle didn’t care what he did as long as he finished what he started - even if that meant temporarily abandoning his assignment halfway through just because things weren’t going as planned.
It’s not poisoned, she had finished. And he would have smiled just to shut her up, if that line itself wasn’t so concerning. It gave her away.
“How comforting,” he brought the cup to his lips to take a sip, glancing away to see if the kid who had looked at him earlier was still around. Apparently not. The coffee was bland, but he didn’t care. It was during times like this that nothing mattered - he had already lost the sense of time, stuck in an over-crowded place that was beginning to feel sticky, with rain pounding down ceaselessly against the windows.
He placed his cup of coffee on the table, thumb following the curve of the handle. If she were to take notice of his hand, she would see the several old scars the drew up crookedly on the skin, alongside a fresh cut that was plastered over by a band-aid. Maybe she would realize it wasn’t only a headache, but the lack of sleep that made his eyes hurt. He hated when strangers were at such a close proximity, because they could confirm what they could see. Besides, there was something about the force of her gaze that he couldn’t quite place - it had him questioning her actions - because he knew she hadn’t offered him a cup of coffee out of kindness. She was aware and observant - and it showed.
“If I die - it’s on you.”
The menu was cool against his palm, and it was only then that he realized how humid the cafe had become. It seemed the weather wasn’t going to give, unfortunately. The same waitress came by again and glanced between the two of them, before carefully picking up his cup of coffee. With a tray in her one hand, she held out her other for the menu, to which he gave without a word. She left without smiling or thanking them, and that was cue for him to leave. His uncle had his way of installing trusted people in every location that needed monitoring - the waitress and the kid were only two of the many. This way he didn’t need to wait for a phone call, or a text, to know everyone was in their place, and that the only thing left was for him to proceed comfortably knowing he could finish his assignment without fail. He was still alone though, but if anything went wrong, the blood wouldn’t be on his hands.
The clock on the wall near the exit read 3:14 p.m., and he was due for 4:30 p.m. - so he had a little over an hour to spend waiting for the rain to stop.
It is undeniable in moments that she does not want to be needed by the government or relied on by the people in her life. She wants to be somewhere she can observe. This is a form of her escaping a rigid routine, no random act of kindness in a corner café for a stranger. So she listens to the one who fits this scene in a placed manner. As if he were planted, but groomed to fit neatly into the folds of an every day situation.
She believes he is an odd boy with peculiar reactions. Not the worst, or even questionable—but far from average. She notices significant motive in his words. A potential end to her curiosity if she dared act on such an eccentric thought. Whether he would leave the situation first, or tell her to leave. It does not matter to her. She does not expect more to result from this. Instead she pays attention. Tilts her head and feels long strands of hair fall across her cheek.
There is a statement in his tone when he mentions his death just to blame it on her, and the fact that he is not ignoring what she says speaks louder than that possibility. There is not ‘if you really poisoned me’ in his voice, but a definite result from even considering it. Jiyoung contemplates, and folds her hands on the table. Fingers thread together. She presses lips to a closed fist and dares to think he is interesting.
“Are you waiting for someone?” Her throat itches to ask more, but she forces herself to remain simple. Wondering if he would catch the shift. It may be something or nothing he wants, after all. “A nice boy like you with a face like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a date.”
Nice. Handsome. Punctual. She wonders if he’ll deny any of her assumptions. The glaring menial detail in a loud room remains from the bandage on his hand. Camouflaged only by an array of activity. She would not have noticed. Not the pressing weight. This heaviness on their actions is just as normal as their hands, and she assumes it is not typical at all. Even the way he holds the coffee is with automatic detachment. Perhaps from the entire situation and not necessarily her. She’s sure he would notice the hesitation if she paused too long. So she wraps fingers around his hands and brings them closer. Touching his hands reminds her of her brother. There are callouses in the same places. Not worn hands, but precise hands accustomed to the same movements over and over.
“You have good circulation,” she comments, more because she probably should say something. Though he does not seem like the type to think silence is uncomfortable, her actions are often premeditated based on the one she speaks to. Rules of social exchange run together in her line of work and this is just her observing him. Even the way shoulders rise is with purpose, and she fakes a shiver (though the steady fall of rain presses an unnatural chill upon the room). Touching has nothing to do with the weather. It is an exchange of attention. “My hands are so cold all the time. I’ve been told it’s like holding hands with a dead fish.”
There is her reason. Her hands are cold, so she takes his. Waiting for his as rain drums against the roof. This wave of noise joins the interference of every voice in her head. It becomes a game of plucking out the noteworthy tones and ignoring the crash of sound hollowing out her thoughts to observe his expression. There is the smell of chocolate pouring over into the poignant odor of coffee. She leans forward just as a plate smashes against the floor. Her attention lingers over shards peppering the floor. Concentration is just as broken. She presses the toe of her boot over a white sliver of a plate and applies pressure until she feels the edge barely against the underside of toes.
Silence envelopes each voice in the room just so they can all watch a waitress struggle to sweep up remains and apologize to customers. She of course says it is fine, as it always is, and her only question is pointed. Not a whisper between familiar people and just meant for him.
“What do you think?”