Our Life Is a Life-Sized Life (Haha/Jihyo)

[warmboys]

Edit: HAPPY BIRTHDAY RUNNING MAN ♡ I didn't write this for the occasion; I just have excellent timing.

Our Life Is a Life-Sized Life
Haha/Jihyo
800 words
PG

She's a modern Venus.
Be my girl!
- the pillows

They’ve stopped on a commercial for the Bahamas, both of them rendered momentarily speechless by the sparkly blue water and the palm trees that all eerily bend one way. Donghoon drops the remote on his foot but that doesn’t stop him from making his own proposal. “Let’s go somewhere nice,” he says. “Like-“

“Paris,” Jihyo says at the same time that he says, “Okinawa.”

“But,” Jihyo frowns. Her lips protrude distractingly. “That’s too close. We might as well go to Jeju Island.”

“Okay,” Donghoon says happily.

She pinches his arm. He digs his neck into his shoulder and gives in. “Okay, okay. Oh-my-God. I just wanted to pack my Hawaiian t-shirts.”

“You can pack whatever you want. I’ll walk ten steps ahead of you.”

“Are you going to dye your hair blonde, too?” He gets an idea. “Hey, are you going to stop shaving?”

He’s seen the coarse little hairs on the razor in the bathroom. His razor. Little woman hairs.

“I’m going to find a French boyfriend,” she says, seriously. “He’ll be as tall as Gwangsu.”

“When he tries to hold your hand he’ll have to lift you up at the same time. Which means you’ll never hold hands.”

“Yah, Ha Donghoon!”

She yells, but he can’t tell if she’s angry. Sometimes their conversations are a series of tests. He wants to see her navigate around those roadblocks. He’s pushing to see how much of him she’s willing to take. There is too much insanity in him, he knows. He is a giddy tornado, and then a polar bear. His diets are never successful. Gary and him did yoga once, as a joke. They couldn’t walk the next day. “Two years in the military,” Donghoon panted on the floor of his living room, watching his own stomach rise and fall like the gentle rhythm of a beach ball. “Oh-my-God,” Gary said.

He wants her to stick around, though. Too much. He wants it that much.

“I’m sorry, Jihyo.” He clasps his hands together. “I’m sorry, Song Jihyo. You are a beautiful, forty-six kilogram lady. Your French boyfriend will be able to lift you with just his left pinky.”

She scoffs. It’s a laugh in sheep’s clothing. Huzzah!

“Maybe you should work out more and try to do it yourself.”

“I injured my left pinky while I was serving. My right one, though, is a champ. I often use it in arm-wrestling competitions.”

She’s not listening. It’s a Kyochon Chicken commercial. A couple of pretty boys are dancing while holding a fried chicken.

“Hey, Song Jihyo. Are you listening?” He says, launching into a tantrum. “Hello?”

Her eyes are glassy. “Oh, I really want some chicken.”

“Jihyo,” he tries again.

“I’m so hungry.”

He groans and rolls over to the end of the couch. This happens every time. He doesn’t know how someone can so easily tune out the world when the world is so much more fun and interesting and what she’s tuning it out for. The world’s stomach is a moonbounce. The world gives really good foot massages.

“Hey, Song Jihyo,” he tries again. “I love you.”

“What?”

Her eyes are wide and startled. Her chin, at attention. Her hair curls away from her neck like a bellflower. The kind of view he wouldn’t mind having every morning for the rest of his life.

“No,” he says quickly. “I meant, I love chicken. I love . . . jajangmyun-I love ddeokbokki.”

She turns back to the TV. “I love those things, too. Chicken and jajangmyun and ddeokbokki.”

“Good.”

“You know what else I love? Paris.”

“How can you love a place you’ve never been?” Donghoon complains. “You’re being an elitist.”

“How can you tell a girl you love her and then take it back?”

He fills the space between them the only way he knows how. Brusquely. The clammy underside of his thighs where his boxers rode up squeaks against the surface of the couch. It sounds like he farted. She pinches her nose with her index finger and thumb. “Oppa!” Comes out all nasally.

“What? C’mon, you know I didn’t-“

“It stinks.”

“I didn’t even-“ he gives up. “Fine. Paris. Let’s do it.”

It’s taken a while, but finally she’s laughing. “Really? Are you giving up?”

“I’m going to use this opportunity to grow a beard.”

“Does that mean we’ll have to wait until the winter?”

“Hey,” he starts, but she silences him with a slender manicured finger. The nail is painted black.

“I . . . love beards,” she says carefully. Letting meaning seep into the syllables.

“I-okay. Thanks.”

She falls asleep on his stomach. Her hair smells like a garden, in the best way.