He's always stood mirror to mirror in his expectations— equilibrium as much of a constant as gravity is, weight leveled plus to minus for the nullified outcome. As a man of little to no surprises, he wants none in return. Call it staying within the lines, playing it safe, settling for less—in Choi Seunghyun's eyes, there's an inexplicable beauty in consistency, and this is how he plans to stay: still.
Nights at Half Past tend to follow cyclical trends, from beginning to end, with the same swarm of costumers that flow in and out of the junction—their predictability makes his job all the more easier: table five, a Ms. Kim with her poodle? Dakbal and a kettleful of maekgolli, always. Just right behind her, table seven: a Mr and Mrs. Ahn, with their one and a half soju's into their Thursday night, a shared bowl of naengmyeon between them. And at the very center, a writer always hunched over his laptop: the chef's special with a can of beer. It's details like these that he prides himself in, matching face to preferences of taste.
Which is why tonight feels off, in ways that are not blatantly glaring but noticeable; perpetually hovering, like a phantom shape at the corner of his peripheral. Except, rather than some unrecognizable shadow, it’s a living and breathing patron. He’s relatively new, having gradually become steady in his appearances, with a penchant for occupying the exact same spot among the line of bar stools. The strange thing though is that for all the times the boy’s been here, he hasn’t ordered a single thing—not even the free snacks, or the pitcher of water set at every table surface. Always opting to sit and watch, watch the path that he follows through the restaurant chatter, pen and notebook at hand, watching him with such an intense bout of concentration that frankly, it’s unsettling.
Hence why, it’s also tonight that Seunghyun decides to not delay the confrontation for much longer.
Throwing the dish rag over his shoulder, he takes his strides slow, from the place behind the counter to where the other sat a little ways away. He’s composed all over, an astute firmness, when he speaks.
“Everything going all right for you, sir?” A smile, polite and fleeting. His eyes catch the state of his utensils: untouched and empty. You’ve been sitting there for awhile. “Can I get you anything?”
