Blasé

Blasé - indifferent

It’s a far cry from elegance—the way you’re both scooping up pieces of clothing from the ground.

“Trousers?” You’re scanning wall to wall, behind stools and tables until your eyes rest on the woman across the room. “Where did they go?”

Minju’s got her hands at her waist, fitting her own trousers. “Over there.” She simply tilts her head in a direction of vague guidance.

Aside from the distant voice from the flickering television in the corner, showing scenes of the news, and the soft sounds of jazz music, there’s an uneasy amount of silence for a bar in the mid-afternoon. Another knock at the door—Wonyoung must be getting impatient. No surprise.

You’re pulling on your trousers as Minju slides her arms into her blazer, settling it onto her shoulders. As she brushes down her clothes, fixes her hair and steps over to her shoes, she has shifted back into the unassuming young woman you first set your eyes on. Not a trace of the indecency remains. Not even a slight indication that, despite the attempt she made to clean up with a few napkins, there’s likely still your cum running from her cunt.

She has spent the past couple of minutes explaining how this will go—how you’re going to sit back at the bar and Minju is going to re-open as if nothing happened. She didn’t tell you exactly how she plans to deal with the Wonyoung problem, but, ‘ just let me handle it’ is somehow enough for you.

You sit where it all started, joining your drink at the bar. The last remnants greet you in a sorry state of neglect. You do what you can to straighten up, a hand through your hair, a smoothing down of the wrinkles in your shirt, and a tug on the sleeves to straighten the cuffs. It is when you start to think you’ve got yourself somewhat under control that you realise just how bad you must look. There’s the undeniable sign that you can’t ignore—that rising tide of musk and sweat from your body and the discomfort it brings.

Another loud rattle of the door against the frame, vibrating across the hinges and into the metal fixings. A call of your name, but it’s not quite how you think it should sound.

Minju flicks a series of locks on the door; three separate bolts—heavy-duty clunking metal. Finally, she drops the latch and unlocks the main lock. She has her hand on the handle of the door and she hesitates, looking over her shoulder to check on you once again. One last look.

Just smile.

She opens the door, standing in the opening, between you and the woman outside.

“Wonyo—” Minju begins. “Sorry, who are you?”

You twist in your seat and watch the scene unfold. You expect anger, an outpouring of venom from a woman so full of ego, arrogance, vanity, and maybe even jealousy.

Reality is far from the expectation.

The woman asks Minju if you’re here, and while you’re still racking your mind to work out who she is, Minju lets her in and, in a way, you’re grateful for seeing her walk into the room and folding her umbrella.

“Gaeul?”

“Finally, I was a minute away from leaving. What were you—” She looks around the room, at the out-of-place stools, and then at you. She scrunches her nose and sniffs, confirming her suspicions through the scent of sex. “Oh.”

She turns her eyes to Minju. Gaeul lingers, eyes fixed on the bartender’s face.

“We… we were talking.” Minju chuckles in amusement.

“With the door locked?” Gaeul is easy to read, even across the room, and you can see the genuine concern on her face. You hear it in her voice too. Suddenly, even being here feels wrong. Discomforting is the silence. Unnerving is the smile that stretches on Minju’s face—a much prouder look than you’re giving.

“Relax darling, we were just talking, and then…” Minju dismisses and Gaeul rolls her eyes.

“No, no. Please. Don’t say another word,” Gaeul waves her hands in front of her, a gesture of surrender. “I don’t want to know the details.”

“You sure you don’t want to hear about how he just—?”

“No. Just no.” Gaeul turns from the grinning woman and heads to you.

She struts in that same determined way she always does. Steady are her paces. Bag over her shoulder, short hair half-tied up and black jeans hugging her legs. As usual, she dons the casual grace that suits her so well.

“Bro, what the hell happened?”

“You seriously don’t know?” you answer the question with a question.

“You got called away. Wonyoung said she had somewhere to be and the rest of us were left waiting, but nothing ever happened. Then classes end and Wonyoung finally just tells me I could find you here.”

“I’m in a shit-storm, Gaeul.” You say, resigned to your seat.

Figuratively, of course. Though Gaeul looks like she’s been in one herself as she throws her rain-drenched raincoat over a stool. The one outside probably isn’t bad enough to require a name, but you know the one that you’re facing all too well. Storm Wonyoung.

You recount the abridged version for her. Of course, the details of you and Wonyoung and your benefits need little introduction. As for the rest, it’s difficult to explain the parts you still don’t understand, like how this all comes down and you and you alone. It takes two to fuck.

“You can’t just hide in here from it all.”

You laugh a little and say, “not hiding.” An obvious lie, and Gaeul gives you a forced smile that says she’s not convinced.

“You had us worried.”

“Even Wonyoung?” you ask; it’s a test more than a question. You know the answer. You know that she doesn’t give a shit, but you want to see if Gaeul tries to sell the lie.

“Ha! That would be a first.” Minju mocks with a scoff. She walks back to where you first found her, behind the bar, and she’s still pulling and tugging at her shirt to get the fit back how she likes it.

“I’m sure she does,” Gaeul says, with little confidence in her words. She sits herself down next to you and drops her bag off her shoulder and onto the bar.

“You’re still trying to convince yourself,” Minju mutters with a shake of her head. “She really has you all around her little finger.”

Gaeul is trying her best to ignore the interruptions. “Wony and Yujin—they can fix this.”

“Yujin, huh? Now that’s a new name.” Minju interjects yet again, looking at you with eyes sharp enough to cut. She has her back to the shelf of alcohol, her arms folded under her chest. The more you think about it—the more the pieces seem to fall into place—the clearer it becomes that Yujin is the best friend who replaced Minju.

You scratch your ear. What a mess.

“Gaeul, there’s no way the school let me back in.”

“You don’t know that.”

Minju steps forward, a little closer. Her tongue dances across her lips as she readies herself to speak. “Oh, you think Wonyoung is going to get daddy’s money and pay your way out of this mess? What’s she going to tell her father? Hey daddy, please can you bribe the school to help this guy who’s been fucking your princess silly? Seriously? She’s probably the one who got you kicked out in the first place.”

That same laughter. That same mocking, belittling attitude that Minju had toward the idea of Wonyoung earlier. As if Minju sees nothing but weakness. Sure, Wonyoung has her fair share of faults, and sometimes she comes off too entitled, but right now, in this situation, her heart is actually in the right place. Or that’s at least what Gaeul is saying.

“She would never do that! Wonyoung takes care of her friends and I’m sure she…” Gaeul gives up on her argument as Minju continues to laugh in the face of it.

Minju holds one elbow in the palm of the other hand and places her index finger on her cheek. She flicks it over to Gaeul and points. “Where are my manners? Drink?”

“Coffee, I guess.”

“Come on, we’re in a bar, let me pour you a—”