Sights

You’re in a bar on the rough side of town, and you see her.

And to you, it’s worth pointing out how little that should mean. 

It’s essentially magic, you believe—the whole love at first sight thing. That it’s quite simply sleight-of-hand; smoke and mirrors on a different subject and scale. It’s a trick of the light, a chemical misfire, a story people tell to make their luck sound like fate. If you were a little less sane and a little more skeptic, you’d probably roll your eyes and laugh in the face of every film, book or comic that’s tried to sell you the snake-oil. True love, you believe, is proximity and time, and then a dash of biological imperative—A slow burn, if you will, rather than perfectly struck lightning.

Apparently that’s all fucking bullshit.

Because she’s there—Minju, you’ll come to learn—not alone, but in a booth of friends not too far from you. She laughs at something the one next to her says, and between her smile, the faint sound of her laugh—the way her raven hair cascades around her shoulders—you can’t help but think the sight of her is simply beautiful.

But, she’s not that. She can’t be. Or maybe she is. Or maybe you’re just drunk, and tomorrow you’ll laugh at yourself for getting worked up over a stranger in a bar. That’s the more likely explanation. But the thought arrives anyway: she makes you feel the gaps in your vocabulary—the gross poverty of any reaction other than holy fucking shit. 

And you don’t dismiss it.

You’re too busy watching her.

Chin propped on an arm, shoulders slouched inwards, cheeks pillowed against her palm as she buries her face in her drink like she’s trying to hide from the room; She really has no idea she’s the most interesting thing in it. No awareness of the gravity she exerts, the hold she has on you, the way conversations around her dim to a murmur because nothing else could possibly draw your attention more.

She smiles, and you want to be the one she’s looking at.

She laughs, and you want to be the one who made her. 

It’s embarrassing, almost, how quickly you’ve abandoned every principle you’ve pretended to have. You’ve mocked friends for less. And yet here you are.

You notice the cream-colored sweater that keeps slipping off a shoulder. Every time she tugs it back up, it slides down again within seconds—she’s given up on fixing it entirely.  Meanwhile the exposed line of her collarbone is doing something to you that you’d rather not examine too closely. It’s just a collarbone. Merely bone and skin atop. Get a fucking grip. 

But, God, her cheeks are an adorable shade of pink, from the drink or the heat or maybe just because she’s stunning and gorgeous and existing in a world that probably doesn’t deserve her. Or maybe she’s flushed from laughing. Maybe she’s flushed because she can feel the weight of your stare. You’re not arrogant enough to believe that last one. You’re not humble enough to stop hoping.

You tell yourself that you’re not gonna walk over there. That—even in the haze of the bar, the distasteful neon, the assortment of liquor clouding your mind—she’s preposterously out of your league.

And then she looks your way.

Finds your gaze like a needle in a haystack.

You don’t look away. 

Neither does she.

And just for tonight, you’re a believer.

*

You’re in a small cafe three days later, and you see her. 

You have for the past three days, actually. 

Not because you got around to talking to her, no—she had been dragged out of the club by her herd before you even got the chance—but because you have this fantasy.

You’re in your usual coffee shop—the one with horrid pastries but the barista’s to make up for it. Sometimes, you’re standing in line, others, like today, you’re seated by the window. And it’s then your gaze drifts toward another table.

She’s there.

She hasn’t been waiting for you—you’re not that delusional—but she is still sitting there. Her hair is slightly messier than that night in the bar, her outfit a tad tamer, face completely bare, but by no stretch of the imagination is she any less beautiful.

Almost beat-for-beat like that fateful night she looks up, meets your eyes, and something passes between the two of you. Be it recognition, surprise, confessions of true love, whatever. Point is: She’s been thinking about you too.

And that’s where it would end.

You’d shake your head, blink and find the chair empty. You’d been staring at a vacant table like an idiot for the past thirty seconds. You’d feel the heat creep up your neck, the embarrassment of catching yourself in such juvenile acts of yearning. She’s a stranger. The bar was a fluke, a moment of temporary insanity, and the odds of ever seeing her again are astronomical.

Today, though, the insanity must be lingering. That or the caffeine hasn’t kicked in and you’re still running on fumes, because even after playing the dream out to its conclusion you swear Minju is still there.

Because she is.

Exactly as she is in your fantasy. 

Which means, yes, she looks as outlandishly beautiful as your brain has decided she is, but it also means she’s looking back. 

Like, right at you.

Your gaze shoots straight down and suddenly your coffee is the most interesting thing in this room. The latté foam is too thick, you guess, but the pretty mug makes up for it. And—oh! The beans. You liked them. They were Brazillian, maybe—err no, Colombian. Or was it Indonesian?

You sneak a peek back up. 

She’s still looking at you.

Ah, fuck it.

You stand up. Walk over. Your mind rushes back to the bar. The door swinging shut behind her. Her friends, whisking her away with zero regard for your wish to test your theories about love.

But today there are no friends. Just you and her. As you wished it would be. 

As it should be.

You slide into the seat across from her. 

“Hi,” you say simply.

“Hi,” she says back.

Supposedly, this is where the conversation is supposed to start.

But it’s also the first time you’ve seen her up close and her you. The gentle flush to her face. The way her eyes just consume your attention. The fascination that dances across her own features as you simply watch each other.

And, for now, at least. The two of you are content with it: The silence, the stillness. The opportunity to drink in the sights.

For you, maybe one more reason.

Love at first—er—second sight, is real.