006: stubborn
stubborn
jonghyun/key (somewhat); g
It takes two to start a fight and one to keep it going.
a/n: i can't sleep, dunkin donuts-brand toasted almond coffee and coquito running through my veins. this literally came out of nowhere. i think, more than anything, it's an experimental piece. interpret it however you like.
He calls me at 11:14pm. It starts with the clatter of my phone against the bedside table, a frantic click click click that progresses into a melody of bits and bytes, and ends with the press of my thumb against the answer button.
"Yoboseyo," I grind and mash at the back of my throat. It's like inhaling sawdust and squinting eyes in the sunlight, irritation ingrained into four syllables. And though I know introductions mean nothing at this point, I hang on to the sound of my voice, worshiping the many ways I can fool myself into promoting and supporting a false indifference.
I can hear him thinking through the receiver; I can hear him formulate a response louder than the sounds of wrecking cranes. "Jonghyun-ah," he breathes--not says, not talks, not sighs, not anything you could fathom unless you heard it, too. Breathes. "I called to see how you were doing."
He never says how are you or what's up, because he doesn't ask questions. They make him sound needy, greedy, filthy, disgusting, and, most of all, dependent. My eyes roll like the plummet of a biker against cold, jagged concrete--rough, but out of my control. I haven't always been like this, that I promise you and him and everyone else.
"I'm fine enough. Seoul's the same as it was when you left it," I tell him, and I pause. "How's Daegu?"
His voice is wispy, and for a moment I wonder if he grinds and mashes his words, too. If I were him, I'd drop them in toxins--maybe then they'd match his appearance--but that's concern and sympathy talking, and I've promised myself I'd have none of that.
"Boring," he answers me earnestly, something like the cooing of birds in the morning or the subtle squeak of a window being perched. "But it's nice to see my family and friends," he adds with the same honest tone.
"That's good," I say. I've always loved him for his honesty, the way he makes everything sound purer than a newborn's squeals. It's unpleasant many times, but at least I know that it's truthful. "Did your mother ever finish redecorating the guest room?" I ask.
It has absolutely nothing to do with anything, of course, but it's small talk.
"You're an idiot," he says. When he laughs, I want to do nothing more than choke on his smile, the glint in his eyes, the slight shaking of his head that's bound to occur no matter how many miles separate us, but he doesn't. "Of course she did. The walls are now a nice grey. Not too light, not too dark."
"Your mother should thank me," I grind and mash, though my attempts are weak and the end result probably sounds more like a plea bargain. It's 11:19pm, and his scoff sounds like familiarity (dare I say it, home) even from a distance.
I say, "If all else fails, I would make a good home decorator," and he retaliates in his typical, condescending way:
"More like, 'If all else fails, you'd be good at sniffing paint,' idiot."
I can hear him pushing the hair out of his face and tracing the seams of the quilt on his bed, and I want nothing more than to drop the awkward tension, the pretending to be mad, angry, offended, not madly consumed with the thought of his every being, and just go back to the days before headline news.
"It's late," he sighs when his subtle comedic prowess has faded away, when the needle falls from the record and all I can hear is silence.
"I guess you're right," I tell him, and it's like the final knockout, the surrender. There's no hesitation, because that would indicate that I was unhappy about something or the other, and that would break the fine glass that is indifference. Somewhere outside a car honks and two lovers part, though I witness none of these things. "Say hello to Jinki-hyung for me."
"Yeah," he says, and I can hear the clockwork turning in his head; I can hear each thought like the pounding of fingers on a keyboard, but he doesn't know it. Click click click, and "I remember when we didn't have phones."
He doesn't ask questions because they make him sound needy, greedy, filthy, disgusting, and, most of all, dependent, but I know the angles in which he functions nonetheless. They're sharp and blatant and honest like the hiss of peroxide against an open wound, no matter how many miles and men he attempts to mask them with. Though, I guess I'm really not one to talk after all we've been through.
"Yeah," I say at 11:21pm, after a pause and a nod, my fingers dragging across the buttons of my phone, and a little, nagging voice of concern buzzing in my conscience. "Yeah, me, too."
When we didn't have phones, I picked the color of your mother's new guest room.
jonghyun/key (somewhat); g
It takes two to start a fight and one to keep it going.
a/n: i can't sleep, dunkin donuts-brand toasted almond coffee and coquito running through my veins. this literally came out of nowhere. i think, more than anything, it's an experimental piece. interpret it however you like.
He calls me at 11:14pm. It starts with the clatter of my phone against the bedside table, a frantic click click click that progresses into a melody of bits and bytes, and ends with the press of my thumb against the answer button.
"Yoboseyo," I grind and mash at the back of my throat. It's like inhaling sawdust and squinting eyes in the sunlight, irritation ingrained into four syllables. And though I know introductions mean nothing at this point, I hang on to the sound of my voice, worshiping the many ways I can fool myself into promoting and supporting a false indifference.
I can hear him thinking through the receiver; I can hear him formulate a response louder than the sounds of wrecking cranes. "Jonghyun-ah," he breathes--not says, not talks, not sighs, not anything you could fathom unless you heard it, too. Breathes. "I called to see how you were doing."
He never says how are you or what's up, because he doesn't ask questions. They make him sound needy, greedy, filthy, disgusting, and, most of all, dependent. My eyes roll like the plummet of a biker against cold, jagged concrete--rough, but out of my control. I haven't always been like this, that I promise you and him and everyone else.
"I'm fine enough. Seoul's the same as it was when you left it," I tell him, and I pause. "How's Daegu?"
His voice is wispy, and for a moment I wonder if he grinds and mashes his words, too. If I were him, I'd drop them in toxins--maybe then they'd match his appearance--but that's concern and sympathy talking, and I've promised myself I'd have none of that.
"Boring," he answers me earnestly, something like the cooing of birds in the morning or the subtle squeak of a window being perched. "But it's nice to see my family and friends," he adds with the same honest tone.
"That's good," I say. I've always loved him for his honesty, the way he makes everything sound purer than a newborn's squeals. It's unpleasant many times, but at least I know that it's truthful. "Did your mother ever finish redecorating the guest room?" I ask.
It has absolutely nothing to do with anything, of course, but it's small talk.
"You're an idiot," he says. When he laughs, I want to do nothing more than choke on his smile, the glint in his eyes, the slight shaking of his head that's bound to occur no matter how many miles separate us, but he doesn't. "Of course she did. The walls are now a nice grey. Not too light, not too dark."
"Your mother should thank me," I grind and mash, though my attempts are weak and the end result probably sounds more like a plea bargain. It's 11:19pm, and his scoff sounds like familiarity (dare I say it, home) even from a distance.
I say, "If all else fails, I would make a good home decorator," and he retaliates in his typical, condescending way:
"More like, 'If all else fails, you'd be good at sniffing paint,' idiot."
I can hear him pushing the hair out of his face and tracing the seams of the quilt on his bed, and I want nothing more than to drop the awkward tension, the pretending to be mad, angry, offended, not madly consumed with the thought of his every being, and just go back to the days before headline news.
"It's late," he sighs when his subtle comedic prowess has faded away, when the needle falls from the record and all I can hear is silence.
"I guess you're right," I tell him, and it's like the final knockout, the surrender. There's no hesitation, because that would indicate that I was unhappy about something or the other, and that would break the fine glass that is indifference. Somewhere outside a car honks and two lovers part, though I witness none of these things. "Say hello to Jinki-hyung for me."
"Yeah," he says, and I can hear the clockwork turning in his head; I can hear each thought like the pounding of fingers on a keyboard, but he doesn't know it. Click click click, and "I remember when we didn't have phones."
He doesn't ask questions because they make him sound needy, greedy, filthy, disgusting, and, most of all, dependent, but I know the angles in which he functions nonetheless. They're sharp and blatant and honest like the hiss of peroxide against an open wound, no matter how many miles and men he attempts to mask them with. Though, I guess I'm really not one to talk after all we've been through.
"Yeah," I say at 11:21pm, after a pause and a nod, my fingers dragging across the buttons of my phone, and a little, nagging voice of concern buzzing in my conscience. "Yeah, me, too."
When we didn't have phones, I picked the color of your mother's new guest room.