ent. @boyjove
the steamer hisses, spitting out wild heat and a fresh flow of espresso. gold foam, brown bean, tan cream. seha thinks of the laminar flow of other things; water to boiling water, wine to glass, blood to snow. to him, voices have the same effect, thoughts, people. like the barista's who speaks over the clinking of glass and chatter. he leans into her voice, her question pulling his eyes from the coffee stains on her collar to the corner of the little shop where a man sits, the airs about him like the smoke of nicotine: turbulent the closer to the embers that swirl into magnetic, solid wisps. her tired eyes take on a silver shine of admiration when she asks: "is that-"
harsh air pushes through seha's teeth, his smile curt and widow-legged. he passes her a wink as she passes him their coffee, her smile tucked between her lips, the name left under her tongue a secret only they share.
seha takes his seat across from tae chilseong whose back faces the counter, either unaware of the eyes on him or uncaring. (by the way his gaze gravitates from the window to the coffee, seha is confident its the latter.)
"one americano for you and a hot one for me," seha curls his hands around the warm belly of his mug, twisting the gold band around his pinky. he waits for chilseong to take a sip before tasting his own piece of liquid solace. it almost makes it worth the trouble.
a fading headache pulses at his temples at the argument (one of few) between him in the director. this time on replacing the fire-breathing effects post-production. as if seha hadn't already arranged for talented professionals to cover the job. as though they had the budget for digital effects after bending to jung hyunsik's creative wiles. as if seha hadn't been hired for the very thing they were attempting to replicate. it was a punch. it was annoying. they could certainly touch-up in the editing stages, but without substance they might as well have replaced a blowtorch with a lighter.
perhaps he had been unreasonably stubborn. perhaps he was being traditional, a purist. didn't matter—it allowed seha to pull chilseong aside to get his opinion. it was killing two birds with one stone—putting the director in his place and putting chilseong in seha's reach. as the steam from his mug rises, so do the questions. how did it happen? was it you? why did you do it? he asks none of these. not yet.
"we're all passionate about our work," the mug and saucer clink as seha sets it down, folding his arms with smile and ease. "in case you were curious why i dragged you into our mess," he shrugs. "mr. jung had a vision, and i had sense. i figured your opinion would shut one of us up." seha laughs. "don't hate me too much if i start targeting you more often."