#musical #grease #VIPticket #goodSeats #youngsGift
Of course. Another one of Ji-yeon’s thirty thousand followers. I’d had strangers come up to me from time to time and strike up a conversation. Not because they were interested in me but because they wanted to talk to “Friend 3” of Ji-yeon, the gay influencer with the handsome face, ripped body, and big dick. You, bartender, must be trying to get in a good word through me. I wasn’t a total idiot in that sense. But while we’re on this topic, I should probably mention to you that I was nothing but a parasite feeding off his halo and waiting for scraps. I was the backdrop to my gorgeous friends, the big mama figure taking care of the drunk young’uns at the end of the night who couldn’t flag down a cab. I didn’t mind the role too much, but I was a little tired that day. I couldn’t take care of anyone right then.
—Oh, too bad. It’ll be a couple of hours before the second act ends and I finish cleaning up after. I don’t think today is a good idea.
—That’s fine. I’ll just be on my phone at that Starbucks over there. Take your time.
He swept out of the theater before I could answer. I went back to my seat and fiddled around with the arrangement of the program booklets that didn’t sell and wiped the spotless table over and over again with a wet wipe. But this was odd. Why was I smiling? Idiot.
The performance ended, the audience left, and I moved the life-size cardboard cutouts from the photo zone to the back and turned off the lights. It was after ten, surely he wasn’t still waiting for me? Foolish of me to care either way, but I thought, Why not see? and went to Starbucks just in case.
You were sitting cross-legged on a sofa, your tortoiseshell-bespectacled eyes looking down at your phone as you played some game. That sincere expression you had beneath the dim club lighting was gone—who was this stupid-face? The spitting image of that cartoon penguin Pororo. You looked up and almost jumped off the couch getting to your feet and taking off your glasses, your face back to before. I couldn’t hold back the laughter that burst out of me, and I was still laughing as I sat down across from you.
—Please stop laughing.
—Sorry. But why are you really here?
—You asked me to forget you and that made it even harder to do.
—Oh . . . Look, I’m sorry about the other night. I’ll buy you a coffee. What would you like?
—I’ve already had some. Here, take this.
The thing he handed over was, Jesus, my white Louis Vuitton phone case. The most expensive gift that Civil Servant Dogshit had left me, from which I could still remember the feeling of the whole world turning into flashing neon lights when I first received it (a totally shattered memory now, but still, my one luxury-label possession), and I had dropped it?
—You were dancing so hard that you didn’t even know you’d dropped your phone case. I picked it up for you.
— . . . Please forget Yesterday Me.
—Why? You were a great dancer. Especially during “Number Nine.”
Fuck my life. I was already speaking two octaves lower in an attempt to sound more manly, but so much for all that. As my face turned red from embarrassment, the Starbucks part-timer came over to where we sat and told us they were about to close, more or less booting us out the door. We walked without speaking along the alleys of Daehak-ro until I saw a sign for a beer place and blurted out before I could stop myself:
—Do you want to grab a beer?
This was not a clever move, as I was pretty resilient against most alcohol but not beer, but my whole life was basically a series of not-clever moves. I get stupidly honest when drunk, not to mention how I become a real dog, and of course that night I would start babbling on about shit no one asked me about. The worst was cataloguing the failures of my love life in what I’m sure was very attractive self-pity.
—Do you know what? I had true love once. I met an old man, twelve years older, a kind of activist, he made me feel bad about wearing American clothes. But I was the fool who loved him, bought gifts for him, cooked for him, rushed to his house so he could find me there waiting for him like his pet dog. But he dumped me. He iced me out. No regrets, though. Because it was true love. In any case, since then I’ve promised myself I will only meet nice guys. My next boyfriend was so-so in everything—face, body, dick, and whatnot—but he was nice, and that’s why I went with him. Do you know why he dumped me? Apparently, I sing on the street too much. As if I was putting on a concert or something? Look, can’t someone sing a song on the street if they want to? It’s a free country . . .
The most pathetic highlight of the evening was when he walked me home, even though it was only ten minutes from the beer place.
—Do you want to come on up?
I saw him hesitating, and I suddenly came to my senses. Get a fucking grip, I thought. He’s just not that into you. Don’t do this to someone who’s just being nice. I ignored how he kept looking around without saying a word and added:
—Where do you live?
—Incheon.
He came all the way here from Incheon? For a phone case? Because he was just being nice? This warranted further investigation.
—Haven’t the trains stopped running? Stay until the first train.
—I can take a cab.
—Are you loaded?
—No.
—So you’re so repulsed by me that you’d rather get in a cab to get away from me?
(How low was I willing to go tonight?)
—It’s not that . . .
—Then what is it? Are you afraid I’ll murder you? Eat you alive?
(Oh my God, please shut up.)
—I have this rule.
—What rule?
—To not . . . sleep with someone until the third date.
I burst out laughing. How old was this bastard, twenty? Had he seen too many episodes of Sex and the City, did he think he was Charlotte or something? It made me think he really wasn’t that interested in me, but while I didn’t want to make an even bigger fool of myself than I had up to that moment, I couldn’t help grabbing his hand. I said one more thing that made my intentions transparently obvious.
—Did I say anything about sleeping? I’m just saying you can sit for a while and leave when the sun comes up.