In Passing

May 12, 2013 in Ajitofu, one-shots by Wasabi Warrior

There were six of around the table: my dad, my mom, my older brother, and younger sister–and the waitress. But it doesn’t last. Soon, the waitress finishes setting the table and leaves.

It begins.

And then there are four. I don’t leave physically, but my attention–and my eyes–follow the waitress. I take glances to make sure no one else notices, but I take lots of them, enough to burn through her, probably. But I wouldn’t want that. After all, this is different.

This feeling is different.

I don’t know how to react. It is the first time I find another woman beautiful. Yes, she is that and she is stunning and graceful as she places our plates and refills our glasses. Her every movement catches my eye, and even when she is at my peripheral, she is at the center of my attention.

She is different.

Her arms are skinny. I can see her veins because of her pale white complexion. Her hair is jet-black, almost like a fountain of ash flowing down smoothly, ending in straight-cut bangs. I have never fallen for anyone with straight bangs before. She is not my type–not among the usual ones that make me double take and stare in awe. Her beauty is soothing, and before I know it, I am smiling and I am relaxed.

I don’t know her name.

I don’t know her age–although I reckon she’s three or four years ahead of me. I hope it’s just that because any more would be difficult. I don’t know if she’s single. But I’m not so sure it really mattered to me, after all, a girl wants what a girl wants. Yet I don’t even know if she’s into girls. If she isn’t, then there are many ways–my ways. There are so many things I don’t know about her, but I have to say that’s part of what makes her exciting. I don’t know her, yet I already feel like we’d work out.

I want to know her name.

But she doesn’t have a tag. I want to know if she actually likes her job, or if she’s here often. Hell, I might even ask her in that suave tone they use in movies because that’d be sorta cool. I want to know if she’s free some time or if younger mattered. But among all these–and maybe some kinky some in-betweens–I want to know if she’s willing. I want to know if the possibility isn’t some delusion existing only in my head.

I almost smile unconsciously.

When she takes our plates and stacks them on her forearm while carrying two others with her hands, my mouth drops low. But she fumbles and a plate falls. On impulse, I stretch my hand out and catch it. Her cheeks burn and she takes it from me while nodding and keeping her head down. I hear a soft sorry and an endearing thank you. She rushes to the kitchen. That was cute.

She has me completely.

My family starts talking about our plans  for tomorrow, but I could care less at the moment. Meanwhile, my eyes veer to the curtains at the side–and the flash of skin below it. It’s a bit creepy, but her legs are flawless and long. She could pass for a model if she wanted to.

I wish it is for me.

Soon after, she steps out once again with a tray of desert bowls in her hands. She hands them one by one and when she gets to me, I see a smile stretch out from her mouth. Her lips are soft and pink. Her teeth are white and aligned, but most importantly, it matches the arc and bend of her eyes. But I can’t tell if it is genuine. She could have been flashing it for years in the business. Is it real? I get the urge to grab her hand and ask, but my father’s voice dulls my nerves. Not now.

We are about to leave.

The course meal ends and everything is cleaned. My mother asks if she can really speak English, beyond announcing the menu, which she could have memorized and practiced in front of the mirror for hours. Right. We are in Korea. There is no way she and I could ever have something normal. But she answers yes with a valley-girl accent, and we are all stunned. She says that she studied for years in America before moving here.

I want to stay.

My dad thanks the head chef and they exchange pleasantries. The mannerisms go around until it reaches me and her. Hoping she doesn’t notice anything, I bow and smile awkwardly. I can’t stare at her, but I can’t look away either. In between my glances, I see her smile. Her eyes don’t arch along. Instead, I see a momentary glare–filled not with disdain or dislike, but with unresolved interest pined with an urge. I recognize it because it was the same one I gave when she had her back turned. And then she shifts and it disappears.

Things change.

At that moment. I can’t look away anymore. I keep my eyes on her for what it’s worth, hoping she’d notice while everyone else didn’t. Then again, maybe it didn’t matter because only reaction really mattered then. I wanted something to happen. I wanted to reach out and give her my number. I wanted to come back and see her alone. I wanted her.

She is heaven.

My family starts to leave, and for a moment, my feet are rooted into place. I hear my dad’s call and move obediently. But I look back and I burn through her eyes once more. She does the same before giving a smirk and turning her head, letting her hair dance in the air and land gently on her shoulders. The image sticks in my head and the possibilities play along. In a romantic world, things could definitely happen.

But this world is only partly that, and I am dragged back. I am slapped to my senses. I can’t possibly be a prince charming in this life. At least I knew, that in that short time, a miracle happened.

It was just in passing, but I was in love.