* SUNDAYS
the nature of song taekwoo's sundays were a scarcely documented mystery.
many had tried to pull a full answer out of pearly teeth, digging between bone; others had tried to be more coy, slipping slick syllables out from under their tongues as if it would convince him to do the same (it didn't).
the issue lay with the fact that the hemokinetic was a near master in the art of not giving a damn--when it came down to it, he didn't feel it mandatory to coddle people's feelings all the time or feel guilt when he didn't give them what he wanted. after all, life had oft done the same to him--the bitter taste of rejection was a taste tattooed on his palate--and so he kept his silence. it was one of the few things that was truly his.
this particular sunday starts with a trip to a certain flower shop, to which he walks to with quick, long steps. it was in the better part of town (which, when you lived in a shithole, refers to pretty much everything else), an area that today, he'd oddly blends into. fresh faced, hair slicked neatly and dressed in the manner of secondhand smartness, he looked relatively normal. maybe even successful.
he looked like the type of boy his mother would be proud of.
a huff parts from his lips as he finally arrives, entrance announced by the tickled tinkling of the door. other than that, he's greeted with silence--he squints, stepping into the store with the sense of slight secrecy for no reason in particular.
eventually, he just clears his throat and offers a low, "hello?" and a frustrated sigh. the store was open, right?