It’s my last night in Seoul and you say hey let’s sit outside. I frown because you must be out of your fucking mind. It’s January in a city when it’s too cold.
“There’s a smoking room inside.”
“I want to sit outside.”
When you’re insistent, you’re unbearable and rude; when you’re sure of what you want, logic doesn’t matter; and when you have a plan, no one really stands a chance.
My hot coffee turns cold too quickly and I let out a deliberate sigh. But you simply just stayed the way you are.
“This is our last time seeing each other.”
“That’s the lie you say every time you leave.”
“I know. But I just can’t be sure to say other things.”
You smile and for the first time, I think I couldn’t read what it said. I end up stealing a cigarette from you because it’s too cold outside to be sitting idle. The one turns into two and then three and then I really need to go somewhere indoors. It had been too cold.
“I’ll walk you back.”
“It’s just down the road like 3 minutes, I think it’s easy enough.”
“Don’t come up.”
“If you say so.”
I flicked my cigarette on the ground and the dying embers scattered places. I stepped on the butt for far too long to put it out - but I think you know what I mean. January in a city when it’s too cold is a freezing, fragmented mess of feelings and passion. The icy wind sweeps and the cold seeps deep into my bones but you warm my hands up. Bodies attract in the cold, yes, but it’s also easier to break apart when things get brittle and rigid.
Hell is someplace where heat radiates so fiercely that it can’t be contained. I got confused if it was okay to be this warm on a cold night.