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.

*

You’re in your apartment, and you see her.

A month ago, she was merely a stranger in a bar, gone before you could do anything about the feelings brewing in your chest. Three days later, a coffee shop. Three days after that, a first date, and another three days after that your first night together.

Twenty-nine days of texts that arrive a little too quickly, of zero alone time on the weekends, of learning the little, random, slightly unhinged things: she likes the smell of baby powder, she loves horror movies, she’s into some crazy things in the bedroom.

And you would change none of it.

She’s at your stove, hair tied up in a messy bun, that sweater from the bar dusted with flour. The counter behind her is going to be a clean-up and a half—pots stacked, a splatter of sauce on the wall, another, smaller splatter on her phone screen where the pizza recipe is.

“It’s just our one month anniversary, Minju,” you try to reason. She’s cooking for you in your own home, for crying out loud.  “You didn’t need to do all this.”

“Need has nothing to do with it,” Minju replies, not turning around. She’s stirring something—the sauce, probably—with her whole arm. 

“Minju—”

“I wanted to.” She finally faces you, wooden spoon in hand, cheeks flushed from the heat. Or from something else. “You’re special. So, this should be special.”

You scoff. 

How are you supposed to argue with that?

You lean against the doorframe, let yourself take in the sight as she returns to the stove. The slight flex in her arm as she stirs. The way her bangs have escaped the bun and stick to her forehead. The adorable look of concentration she wears.

“It smells incredible,” you admit.

“Obviously,” she deadpans, but you catch the smile. “I’ve slaved over this all afternoon. Almost burnt my finger. Cried a little.”

“You cried?”

“The onions,” she smiles wider, “not you. Don’t get cocky.”

You cross the kitchen, wrap your arms around her from behind. 

She goes still for a second, then leans back into you, the spoon forgotten in the pot.

“Thank you,” you say, quiet, into her hair.

“It’s just dinner,” she laughs.

Maybe, you think. But you’d like it to be a little more. 

You hold her a little while longer, feel the rhythm of her breathing, the weight of her leaning back into you like she belongs here. And maybe that’s the thought that does it—the realization that you don’t want her to leave after dinner. You want her to stay.

“Minju,” you blurt out.

“Mm?”

“Move in with me.”

She goes rigid in your arms. The spoon clatters against the pot.

She turns slowly in the circle your arms form around her. Her face is even more flushed. Wonder what that could be.

“It’s only been a month.”

“I know.”

Minju simply stares into your eyes. 

“You’re crazy,” she whispers.

“Probably.” You brush a strand of hair from her forehead, let your thumb linger on her temple. “But I’m also sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Never do her eyes leave yours, but there’s a vacancy to suggest she’s considering it.

“You’d have to help me pack.”

“Is that a yes?”

She doesn’t answer with words. She just rises onto her toes and kisses you—soft at first, then harder, her hands fisting in your shirt.

When she pulls back, her eyes may as well be glowing.

“I love you,” is what she says. 

And you already know the answer.

*

You’re in a jewelry store, and you see her.

Not physically—in your mind’s eye, where she tends to spend a lot of time, frankly. It’s another daydream of sorts—one you’ve been having for a while now; She’s frolicking in the park wearing some sundress, or something equally as flowy to make her look just that bit more ethereal. You watch from where you trail behind, smiling every time she spins around to catch the sun just right and make sure you’re keeping up with her. 

Eventually, the field dies down, and you’re met with a small pier atop a gorgeous sprawling lake.

You tell her to pose at the end, that you’ll take a picture of her. 

The daydream ends as she finds you with a small box, rather than a camera in your hands.

“This one,” you say to the clerk—it’s in her favourite colour. 

“This one is perfect.”

*

You’re on one knee and you see her.

It went exactly as your daydream thought it would—the universe seems to have a habit of making that happen. 

It’s not elaborate. Nor a spectacle. It’s just you and her and the park where you spent part of your first real date, the one where she’d brought a blanket and a bag of oranges and spent half an hour teaching you how to peel them in one long spiral, silly spiral.

“You’re kidding,” she says.

“I’m not kidding.”

“You’re actually—you’re—”

“I’m actually.”

You open the box. The ring catches the light. Small, perfect, beautiful. Like her.

“I love you, Minju,” you say. “I love you, and I want to wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life. I want to fight with you about cooking and watch bad horror movies with you and hold your hand when you’re scared. I want to be the person you come home to.”

She’s crying now. Full tears, streaming down her cheeks, and she’s laughing too, that crooked, breathless laugh that you’d move mountains to hear.

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”

You slide the ring onto her finger. It’s a perfect fit.

She pulls you up and kisses you, and leaves are falling, the wind starts blowing and somewhere in this park, there’s a dog barking, a child crying, a million different things to tell you that the world is still spinning.

But right now, there’s just the sight of her.

Minju.

*

You’re at the altar, and you don’t see her.

Not yet. Not because she’s not there—she is, she’s standing across from you. Only her wedding veil sits between you two.

The officiant speaks. Words you’ll forget the second they’re said. Albeit, promises you’ll spend the rest of your life keeping.

And then it’s time.

You lift the veil.

And you see her.

She’s crying. You’re crying. The officiant is saying even more things, but you can’t hear it, because she’s looking at you with those dark, warm eyes, and she’s smiling that soft, shy smile, and she’s mouthing something—just one word, just your name—and that’s it. Her mascara’s smudged and her lipstick’s slightly crooked and yet she’s never looked more beautiful.

“You look beautiful,” you say, out loud this time.

She laughs through the tears, “I look like a mess.”

You shake your head.

She’s going to be your wife, and you’re going to be her husband, and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives seeing each other. In the morning, half-asleep and rumpled. In the evening, tired and vulnerable. In bars, looking only at each other, in coffee shops doing the same. In your apartment, the airport, the hospital, everywhere.

Every version of her. Every version of you.

The officiant gets to the “good” part.

“I do,” she says, loud enough for the crowd. But it’s only for you.

“I do,” you say not long after.

And then you kiss her, pulling back to back to admire all you ever need.

Just the sight of her.