Satanas Chapter 11.1 - Side Story 2. The Phantom of Notre-Dame

Since childhood, I persistently dreamed of the Seine River, where sunlight skipped like stones. In the dream, the curving river and a small stone bridge connecting Île de la Cité came toward me like a boatman’s raft.

Someone always walked beside me along the mossy riverbank. I never saw his face, but I knew the color of his hair and his height.

When the wind blew, it carried the scent of the nearby flower market, mingling with the river’s smell. Then, long hair like white reeds spread out. It belonged to the man always with me. That hair, resembling Paris’s sultry sunlight, settled on my shoulders around the age of eighteen, when I’d fully grown.

Until then, it hadn’t even brushed my collar. The dream didn’t stay fixed in its first moment but reflected my growing years—my body transitioning from child to adolescent to adult.

From that day, I grew curious about the dream’s setting. I wondered if the dream’s “me” was another “me” existing in a parallel world. I have a vivid imagination, after all. If so, didn’t that mean the man always with me might also exist, in some way?

After learning it was the Seine River flowing past Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris, I became determined to visit someday. Perhaps I hoped that man truly existed.

—So, did you meet the man from your dreams?

“Dreamed of him, my ass… He just showed up.”

—You said he appeared in your dreams constantly. That’s dreaming of him, isn’t it?

“What kind of guy turns a perfectly fine man gay, you jerk?”

I leaned against the Pont des Arts, gazing at the Pont Neuf across the river. Just then, the Bateaux-Mouches cruise boat passed under it. I adjusted the phone against my right ear and rested my elbows on the railing.

—Dude, logically, if you flew to Paris to find a guy from your dreams, what are you if not gay?

“…Hanging up.”

—Oh, sorry, sorry! Don’t get mad, MoonJinja.

“Call me that one more time, and I’ll kill you.”

July in Paris was hotter than Seoul. Even rolling up my shirt sleeves to my elbows didn’t cool me; only the breeze skimming the Seine’s surface helped. Closing my eyes as I scanned low-rise apartments with rooftop terraces, the wind brushed my bangs. I heard laughter through the phone, then leaned back against the Pont Neuf.

—Could be a ghost.

“As always, talking to you feels like a waste of time. I’m hanging up.”

—No, seriously, hear me out. Have you been to Notre-Dame?

“No way. You know I can’t stand churches, temples, or cathedrals.”

Turning my head, I saw the Conciergerie, used as a prison during the French Revolution. That interested me more. Also, standing on this bridge where Javert, who chased Jean Valjean, threw himself off felt like a small victory for my Paris trip.

I know how foolish this is. Flying from Korea to find a dream man isn’t normal. But I came here, entranced. To this romantic yet somehow unwelcoming Western city.

It showed me a daily life enchanting enough to captivate, and I thought I should end this journey here.

—Dude, you’re an idiot if you go to Paris and skip it.

“I know. But try being born into my family. See if you’d want to go.”

Stepping onto Paris soil, I realized the dream’s futility. Even if I cruised the Seine on a Bateaux-Mouches, finding platinum hair cascading to the chest would be impossible. Because that man couldn’t exist in this world.

—They say the ghost there is super hot.

It was a joke not worth laughing at, but I did. Kicking the ground with my sneaker, I gripped the phone with my other hand. Looking up, I saw the Pont Notre-Dame. I slipped my right hand into my pocket, blinking quietly.

Then, I straightened from leaning on the Pont des Arts and asked,

“What?”

—Yeah, it’s famous. You didn’t know…

“No, no, not that, I’m…”

—What?

“I found him.”

—Found what?

The Pont Notre-Dame, connecting Paris’s 4th arrondissement to Île de la Cité. Among the crowd crossing it, the most dazzling hair stood out. Between the shoulders of passing tourists, it was unmistakably long platinum hair, like white reeds from my dreams.

“I, I’m hanging up…!”

—Hey, hey! MoonJinha…!

He was a bit ahead. The tallest in the crowd crossing the Pont Notre-Dame, I could see his face if I overtook him.

Cutting the call abruptly, my legs moved automatically in his direction. The Seine flowed between us, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of walking beside him.

A familiar presence. It fueled my certainty of meeting someone long yearned for. I’d rehearsed what to say thousands of times. My flimsy script always ended with the dream man’s mockery, but fear of that wouldn’t have driven me to Paris recklessly.

My steps quickened, eyes fixed on that fluttering hair.

“Ah…!”

Just then, a group of tourists approached from the opposite side. Blindly chasing the Pont Notre-Dame, I was swept into the crowd crossing the Pont des Arts.

Shoulders bumped me in an instant. I collided hard with a man in thick clothes despite the sweltering weather, and my body, pushed off balance, grabbed a bridge pillar.

“Pa… Pardon. (S… Sorry.)”

My clumsy French was ignored by his indifferent hand brushing his clothes. He looked Eastern European, early forties. His gaze, as unnatural as his coat in this heat, neither annoyed nor angry, just stared blankly. Uncomfortable, I hurried away.

“Bo… Bonne journée! (G… Have a good day!)”

I waved with a friendly face. I knew it was unnecessary, but alone in a foreign land, I acted out of fear of trouble.

I bolted out of the crowd like a scared animal. Only after crossing the bridge did I look back; the man was gone. Staring at the distant crowd, I brushed my shirt needlessly.

“Haa… Damn, what was that? Why stare like… huh?”

My sneaker stopped mid-turn, feeling an odd emptiness. I frantically patted my chest.

“Huh? Wha…?”

Passersby glanced, some smirking behind their hands, but I didn’t care. I checked my chest, front pockets, back pockets. My gaze shot up from my sneaker.

My wallet was gone. The one in my shirt’s left chest pocket.

“Th, this is crazy…”

I stared blankly at the parting crowd. On the beautiful Pont des Arts under Paris’s sun, I recalled waving idiotically at a pickpocket. My head spun, eyes rolling wildly. My spine chilled.

The quick hand on my chest during the collision wasn’t kindness. I’d flown twelve hours to Paris only to be penniless because of a damn pickpocket.

“Th, this… this damn…”

Unexpected misfortune always strikes mundane moments.

“Hey, you gypsy bastard—!”

My Korean curses, showcasing the language’s excellence, rang out. Passersby on the bridge turned. A Bateaux-Mouches had just passed, its laughter carried by the river. The winds at the bridge’s ends parted.

Perhaps I’d chased a mirage. As Paris’s sounds turned to noise, I sank to the ground, clutching my dizzy head.

🦇

Despite the shitty situation of losing my wallet, two things were fortunate. One, the path to the police station was scenic. Two, my phone, with about 20% battery, was safe.

I’m not optimistic, so I don’t seek comfort in surroundings during crises. Negatively, I’m pessimistic; positively, I’m overly realistic.

But Paris’s streets changed that. Their needless beauty made me gawk while checking directions. I cursed at the battery warning at the station, though.

The station had other tourists like me. I sat with them, filling out insurance claim forms. Exchanging greetings, I found comfort that I wasn’t the only fool in Paris.

“La déclaration a été déposée. (The report has been filed.) Mais pour l’instant, il n’y a rien à faire. (But for now, there’s nothing to do.)”

“Désolé, je…. (Sorry, I…) Ugh, really…!”

Struggling with French was exhausting. I wished I’d taken my friend’s offer to learn some. I quickly typed a translation and showed it to the blue-eyed officer.

[Désolé, je ne parle pas français. (Sorry, I don’t speak French.)]

Hilariously, the officer’s face said, “So what?”

“Uh, so… Can you speak English?”

Of course, the answer was “No.” Or rather, he didn’t answer. His silent, sullen face said it all.

“Okay…”

My shoulders slumped. Standing motionless with a world-weary face, the officer waved me off. I left, bumping backpacks with the wide-eyed person behind me, mumbling an apology too quiet to hear.

Outside, I grabbed my phone to call my family’s queen, likely prepping for choir practice. But as if someone drained it, the battery died, and the phone shut off.

“…To the hostel, yeah, back to the hostel.”

I mutter tasks when stressed. My head throbbed, but that was it. At 2 PM, the sun’s peak, Paris’s scenery no longer registered.

Honestly, I’ve had a smooth life. My parents are alive, I was born the youngest son in a well-off family. Sure, my three sisters teased me relentlessly… but we’re not estranged. My looks aren’t bad. Sometimes, unknown numbers call after my sisters show my photos.

So, why?

“Fuck, save me, unnies… Please…”

What I mean is, a greenhouse flower like me, who’s never gotten his hands dirty, isn’t built for this hellish ordeal.

“I’m crazy… Why did I come here…?”

I sank again, like a man with no strength. On the sidewalk by the asphalt road, I leaned crookedly against a cream-colored building.

I wanted to cry.

Sweat streamed down my face, buried between my knees.

A breeze blew. I started imagining something I never would. That this wind turned the corner, following me. I’m not sentimental or delicate; I’d usually find this cheesy. But now, it felt real.

“Tu le regrette? (Do you regret it?)”

Otherwise, a voice wouldn’t come from nowhere.

“Haha, now I’m hearing things…”

Thinking it was a hallucination, I looked up. The voice sparked strange anticipation. My neck straightened slowly, feeling time drag not just for me but for the speaker too.

“Réponds. (Answer.) Tu le regrette vraiment? (Do you really regret it?)”

A horn blared two blocks away. The unbelievable sound in quiet Paris turned into tinnitus, like a heart monitor flatlining.

Light flooded my dark retina, scattering focus. Under a low-rise apartment’s awning, long legs in shadow led to a head in sunlight.

The breeze blew. Platinum hair like white reeds spread out, like the man always with me in dreams.

“No way…”

My blurred vision finally focused on his face. He gazed at me with strikingly blue eyes, like the dawn sky, stirring complex emotions. It felt like watching a rattling lid on an unknown box.

Dismissing it as déjà vu, I shook my head blankly, signaling I didn’t understand him.

“Korean?”

The tongue that sang elegant French now spoke fluent Korean. A slight smile on his face revealed the source of my déjà vu.

It was the dream I’d had since childhood, as if someone erased only his face.

My voice failed, so I reached out first. My hand landed on what seemed like nothing—his trouser leg. Nodding, I opened my mouth per the scenario I’d rehearsed thousands of times.

“Uh… water…”

No, that’s not it.

With those dying words, the sky tilted. Or rather, the sky and ground swapped. The hands catching me radiated warmth in every line. With that warmth, I lost consciousness.

🦇

In my sleep, I faintly heard voices. They were dusky, like a sky racing toward 6 AM. Someone’s story began quietly, feeling as close as a whisper in my ear. At first, I thought it was someone reading aloud, perhaps a letter.

“We were apart for so long, and you’ve only just met the world.”

I hate riddles. My blunt nature can’t stand roundabout talk. So, I twitched my brows at the next words.

“Each time I prayed fervently, God showed you where I was, and I soothed myself by seeing you through the past.”

Though asleep with eyes closed, it felt vividly real, touching my skin.

“I wanted to ask if you were ever curious about me. If you’d ever wander to find me. It was your turn now.”

I frowned fully here. I pitied the “you” in the story. It sounded like a love confession, but blaming the other for unrequited love didn’t sit well. Or maybe they’d left the other behind.

“So now, I’m overjoyed. I’m okay now. …Tadeo.”

The lucid dream’s voice ended with that name. Like a command in a program, I reacted to “Tadeo.” The déjà vu box’s lid rattled. As a long-forgotten memory nearly surfaced, real voices woke me.

“Dites—moi si vous avez besoin d’autre chose. (Tell me if you need anything else.)”

“Ok, merci. (Okay, thanks.)”

I opened my eyes, not in my hostel. First, I saw an unlit chandelier. The room was bright from drawn curtains, with a faint eucalyptus scent. Turning my head, I spotted a stand lamp on an inlaid drawer.

Lifting thin summer blankets, I sat up. I was in silk pajamas. Leaning against the headboard, my eyes widened as I scanned the room. The bedroom and living area were distinct, visible at a glance.

Luxurious described it perfectly. Chippendale-style furniture, ornate yet tasteful craftsmanship, white-and-gold wallpaper bloomed with pleated flowers. How spacious… I scratched my chin, eyeing a Savonnerie screen used as a partition.

“…Oh.”

Then, my eyes met a man entering the bedroom.

“…Warm milk?”

“What?”

“With sugar.”

In under thirty seconds, I froze twice. First, at his model-like frame, unguarded by the screen, and his dream-or-reality appearance. Second, at his bizarre question.

Do people usually ask about drink preferences like that? Or do I look like a milk lover? I’m lactose intolerant.

Instead of asking where this unfamiliar place was, something else blurted out.

“…Hey, do you know how old I am?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Spot on. I asked because I wondered if I look like a kid.”

I said this, gesturing with an upturned palm at my waist.

“You used to love drinking it like that.”

“No. Not at all.”

Silence followed my firm reply. Our gazes didn’t break, though. He didn’t look away until blinking twice.

“That’s a shame.”

He stretched his neck, subtly avoiding my eyes.

“Wait. You talk like you know me well.”

As he turned, I straightened from the headboard, sounding regretful myself. Maybe too eager, I scratched my cheek awkwardly.

He stood by a pillar separating the vanity and wardrobe, his high nose seeming to point at an Eiffel Tower photo on the wall. I stole glances at his face, my grip tightening on the blanket.

Each look traced his hair, forehead, brows, nose, and lips, sketching them separately in my mind. He looked like nobility fit for this room, in a white shirt and unwashed light jeans.

My eyes, following his golden hair, jolted when I realized he was looking at me.

“Why… why are you staring like that?”

I looked away first. My cheeks felt warm, probably flushed. His head turned back to me, his eyes—same blue as his jeans—fixed on mine.

Even in sweltering summer, they felt like a pre-dawn breeze, but the heat on my cheeks only grew.

Scratching my cheeks repeatedly, I finally spoke.

“Sorry for snapping. I should’ve thanked you first…”

“….”

“Thank you.”

“….”

“Did you change my clothes?”

“Call me Bell.”

He reacted sharply to “you,” frowning and staring intensely before retorting. The forceful introduction was striking, but I was also responding to the name he wanted.

More precisely… my heart started racing.

Saying “Bell” aloud made my chest pound and ache faintly, like digestive acid scraping my stomach. I rubbed my sternum, not my chest, thinking it was hunger.

I called him as he wished, but his expression darkened, and he turned away. His hand combed from forehead to nape. I began observing Bell’s actions closely. Brushing back shining hair, he moved to an armchair in the bedroom.

Oddly, it felt familiar, like a painting from an old exhibition. I even thought a wine glass in his hand would suit him better.

Bell, ever since meeting this man, I feel as though I’ve become someone afflicted with amnesia.

“I changed your clothes. I had something to check.”

“What were you checking?”

And this man seems to have a lot of secrets.

“….”

Bell propped his chin on his large palm and fell silent once again. With his mouth covered, I struggled to read his intentions through his eyes alone. For someone who detests frustration, I was doing something I wouldn’t normally do.

“Here.”

At that moment, Bell poked the center of his chest and spoke again.

“Here, I….”

“Sorry for interrupting.”

“…Yeah.”

“I genuinely don’t understand a single thing you’re saying.”

At my words, he shut his mouth again. It was a moment I deeply regretted. I really need to fix this impatient temper of mine. We both rubbed our faces almost simultaneously.

“I’m frustrating myself too.”

He brought the hands rubbing his face together to his lips and spoke. That gesture felt familiar. This time, my temples throbbed. I pressed my temples and nodded.

“I get it. It’s just how you are.”

“No. This is the first time it’s been like this. Especially in front of you.”

“….”

“Really.”

You expect me to believe that…?

“You might not believe me if I say this….”

Saying he flew from Korea to Paris just to find a man from his dreams would be even harder to believe.

“I’m usually pretty scary.”

“Pfft….”

Goddamn it, Jinha Moon. Please.

I quickly covered my mouth and glanced at the man. His face was utterly expressionless. It was the same serious look as always, but to me, it seemed like he was offended and stone-faced. His face was always so hard to read.

“Oh. Sorry. I wasn’t laughing at you. Really.”

By the time I finished speaking, I had bitten my curled lips. The clear blue eyes that had been staring at me turned elsewhere. His hands were now clasped over his crossed knees. No matter what pose he struck, he was like a painting that could stop anyone in their tracks. If I were an artist, I could draw hundreds of sheets to capture him perfectly and never tire of it.

Thankfully, the man gave a faint smile. It was subtle, but his lips definitely curved upward. It wasn’t a bitter smile. If I had to describe it, it was close to the smile of someone who had decided to take their time and care with starting something.

“Where are we?”

Reassured by that smile, I decided to voice my curiosities one by one.

“Where I’m staying.”

“Oh, you live in a nice place.”

“And from now on, it’s where you’ll be staying too.”

“What?”

When I asked again, the man pretended not to hear and checked a pocket watch he pulled from his pocket. The watch chain that slipped between his long, pale fingers was heavily rusted. My eyes kept drifting to that worn-out chain.

“It’s dinnertime. Shall we go out?”

“It’s already evening when it’s this bright?”

“Where I’m from, the sun stays out a bit longer.”

It wasn’t hard to understand, but it was overly poetic for humor. I pretended to look elsewhere to avoid frowning.

“By the way, where’s my phone?”

“Do you really need it?”

“I can’t live without it.”

“….”

“Our conversation’s stalled again, hasn’t it?”

People’s mouths aren’t vending machines that spit out responses when you insert a coin, but he stopped talking every time the conversation started to flow, like a broken robot. At first, I thought it was because he was a foreigner. That his Korean was rusty, taking time to process from mind to mouth. But his Korean was fluent, and he seemed to grasp the meaning of my words perfectly.

Putting it all together…

“It’s refreshing to see.”

When he said that, he prefaced it with a smile. That smile was a beauty I’d never seen before, and my arrogant deductions crumbled in an instant. Simply put, I was captivated.

“There are clothes in the wardrobe. Change and come out. Your phone’s charging, so don’t bother looking for it.”

While I wore a dumbfounded expression, he stood up and pointed to the wardrobe himself.

After Bell disappeared behind the folding screen, only when he was completely out of sight did I snap back to reality. Approaching the dresser and looking at my face in the mirror, I thought…

“I look gay.”

That’s right.

The clothes hanging in the wardrobe, which didn’t even smell of naphthalene, weren’t mine. The white shirt with a mandarin collar and black slacks weren’t something I’d packed for my modest trip. The clothes, scented with fabric perfume, fit me perfectly, as if tailored in advance.

“These aren’t my clothes, Bell.”

I changed and stepped out of the bedroom with a slightly awkward gait, struggling with the small cufflinks. By the fourth missed button, Bell, who had been leaning on the sofa, approached.

“Did you think I hid your clothes or something?”

He took my hand, fastening the cuff himself, and asked. It was fascinating how those tiny buttons clicked into place so easily in his large hands. I thought his fingertips were deft for a man. When I shook my head quietly, he let go of my wrist with a simple reply.

“I sent them to be washed.”

Oh… I did sweat a lot, didn’t I? I scratched my cheek, feeling oddly embarrassed.

“Sit down.”

I don’t usually like clothes that cover my neck, so I kept tugging at the collar. As I moved to adjust the collar brushing my Adam’s apple, I was stopped again. Turning my head, I saw Bell standing in the dimming sunlight. While I was changing, the sun had tilted westward.

The moderately bright sky allowed me to keep my eyes open comfortably. I sat on the sofa as he instructed, and the sunlight hitting a spire poured onto my lowered face. When I blinked instinctively, Bell was suddenly close. Blocking the rays, he knelt slowly before me.

“I have my own shoes.”

“The place we’re going doesn’t allow sneakers.”

Without giving me time to panic, Bell removed my indoor slippers. Kneeling on one knee on a Persian carpet, he had a pair of dress shoes beside him.

His touch tickled as he put the shoes on. When he fitted the heel, I unconsciously scratched the velvet sofa.

“It still feels like a dream…”

“What? I didn’t hear you…”

When his hand gripped my ankle, my diaphragm tickled at my solar plexus, and I hunched my shoulders. My mouth clamped shut again. His warm palm pressed gently on my tendon. My throat felt hot. Bell put the shoe on my other foot the same way.

I felt like Cinderella slipping into glass slippers in front of an audience. “I can put them on myself.” I could’ve said that, but I didn’t. It was because of Bell’s effortless ability to make the extraordinary feel ordinary.

“The size?”

“…It’s perfect. How did you know my shoe size?”

My gaze, which had fallen to the tip of the loafers, found his face. A passing cloud dimmed the room slightly. Yet, his shining hair and skin made him feel otherworldly.

Bell didn’t answer my question right away. It wasn’t the first time, so I was fine with it. More than that, I wanted to keep looking at his face, lowered below mine at this angle.

When the clouds parted, he stood up. Thanks to his height, which I estimated to be in the late 180s, I had to tilt my head all the way back to follow his face.

And Bell, with a relaxed posture, hands in his pockets, gave a belated reply.

“Eyeballing it.”

🦇

The hotel where Bell was staying was practically a preservation of 17th-century France. The reception, reminiscent of Madame de Pompadour’s parlor, and the restaurant, modeled after the Hall of Peace in Versailles, were breathtakingly beautiful. The historical accuracy made me question whether this was really the 21st century.

The place that captivated me most was the hotel’s bar, where a sign hung like a plaque, claiming Robert De Niro, the star of The Godfather, was a regular. Of course, I couldn’t care less about that actor. I just poked my head in out of curiosity.

“Wow… This is unreal.”

My eyes widened as I stepped inside. The bar, with its cohesive bronze tone, felt timeless. The theme from The Godfather was already playing in my ears. I may not care for Robert De Niro, but I’m crazy about The Godfather.

Wearing a sharp suit and sitting there smoking a cigar, anyone could feel like Al Pacino. I pictured Bell in that scene instead of myself. He’d fit perfectly as someone ruling the underworld without a drop of blood on his hands.

Unable to contain my excitement, I looked at Bell.

“You like this place that much?”

“Of course. Every man goes crazy for this vibe.”

“Is that your usual taste?”

“Do you know that show? It’s a British drama. The main character’s a detective, and his brother’s a government agent. They’d hang out in a place like this…”

I rambled on excitedly. I wanted to touch the buffalo leather sofa and mahogany table. Then, Bell, who had been quietly by my side, grabbed my hand.

“Let’s eat first. You haven’t had anything all day, have you?”

As if on cue, my stomach growled. It was screaming that I was starving. Clutching my stomach instinctively, Bell held my hand tightly and led me. We ended up at a rooftop restaurant with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the Eiffel Tower.

My left hand kept feeling warm. I glanced at it a few times, wondering why. It wasn’t just because he was holding it—I didn’t want to admit I was conscious of it. But pulling away now felt like I’d be rude to my benefactor.

Even as we were guided to our seats, Bell didn’t let go of my hand.

“Try the food, and if you like it, order more. Same if it’s not enough.”

The menu was handed to the waiter with a snap. My mind, which had been blankly staring at the candle lighting the table’s center, snapped back. I blinked hard and looked at the man across from me. My right hand was fidgeting with my left under the table.

“It’ll probably suit your taste. I ordered things you’d like.”

He added, turning his head toward the window. With his legs crossed and head tilted, his jawline looked as if it had been carved with a cutter knife up to his ear. I also noticed that his neck, which I’d thought was slender, was actually hidden by long hair. And his shoulders were as broad as those of a gym-obsessed man.

His face was stunningly beautiful, but under that shirt, he might be built like a beast.

“I never told you what food I like.”

Like someone keeping an observation log, I studied him, mentally noting details while throwing out a curt remark. There were two reasons: a self-defense mechanism to cover the perverse thought I’d just had, and…

Curiosity about his excessive kindness.

“I have a question.”

His blue eyes, which had been staring somewhere beyond the window, found me again. Like they had a homing instinct. In my brief observation, he always seemed to gaze into the distance—except when looking at me, though that might just be my ego talking.

“It’s definitely a bit strange.”

“What’s strange?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Some might call me ungrateful for saying that. He might think so too. Bell now crossed his arms, slightly lifting his chin, as if to say, “Go on.”

“We just met today. To you, I’m….”

“Bell.”

“…Right, Bell. To you, Bell, I’m a foreigner, a stranger.”

As I spoke calmly, Bell nodded slowly between my words.

“And… you’re letting me stay without even checking my background, dressing me in new clothes, and now you’re about to feed me.”

“Yeah. So?”

“I know I was excited earlier, and now I might seem like a manic-depressive.”

I dropped my gaze to the table. What I mean is… My right hand was still fidgeting with my left. If I believe my dream wasn’t wrong while seeing you, a complete stranger, treat me so kindly—does that make me a little strange?

A sudden laugh broke out. Looking up, I saw Bell brushing back his hair. Leaning back comfortably, he now pulled himself forward, resting both elbows on the table. His clasped hands didn’t bother hiding his smile.

“Why are you laughing?”

“No, no. Keep talking.”

“I’ll talk if you stop laughing.”

Bell covered his smiling mouth only after I frowned. Just then, a sommelier with a bar towel approached with the ordered wine and champagne.

“You ordered champagne too?”

“You seem like a lightweight.”

“How do you know that…”

When I mumbled, his silent gaze turned to me again. Oddly, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Does being good-looking excuse everything? Was I always this shallow? Propping my chin, I stared at the candle with pooled wax. After the sommelier left, Bell tried to pick up the conversation.

“Alright. I stopped laughing. Talk again.”

“I was just saying it’s hard to understand, that’s all.”

But I kept it brief. He slid a glass toward me. My face reflected in it, distorted like it was shot with a wide-angle lens. Looking at it, then at him, I thought… not a squid, maybe a cuttlefish.

We clinked our glasses, the contrasting colors of liquor sliding down our throats. The next conversation started after the appetizers arrived, with him speaking first.

“What’s with that expression?”

“I should’ve brought my phone.”

“Why?”

“To take pictures. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

At my words, Bell blinked his slightly widened eyes.

“Of me?”

He’ll probably never know how hard I tried not to laugh at that absurd question.

“No. The food…”

Embarrassed, he turned his head toward the window. Thinking it was cute, I kept chuckling while eating cheese-melted soup.

I devoured the food as it came. Bell, quite the gourmand, would taste a bite and quietly push the plate away if it wasn’t to his liking, then quickly drink water as if rinsing his mouth.

It tastes good, though. So picky. “If you’re not eating that, give it to me.” I had to hold back from saying that.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a college student.”

“What’s your major?”

“Korean literature.”

“That really doesn’t suit your personality.”

“I think so too.”

I agreed, shoving a fist-sized portion of rolled pasta into my mouth. A familiar melody played in the restaurant, which had only played classical music. It was a pop song I loved, called Mermaid, perfect for this time of day. It turned the fading sunset into an ocean.

“Both your parents are alive, I assume.”

“Yes.”

“You grew up loved.”

“….”

“That’s good.”

My chewing slowed. I couldn’t understand why he looked at me with such heartbreaking eyes. I hadn’t swallowed the food in my mouth yet, but I twirled more pasta on my fork.

Maybe his parents aren’t around…? It made me feel solemn for no reason.

“Have you ever been in a relationship?”

“No. Never.”

“This is the most important question. I hope you’re not thinking of lying.”

“I’m serious. That stings a bit, you know?”

Two forkfuls, and the plate was nearly empty. My dissatisfied gaze shifted from the plate to him. Bell was cutting meat from my portion too. With perfectly symmetrical shoulders, his knife movements were elegant.

If I’d brought my phone, I’d have taken a picture of him right now.

“Twenty-five is the age to be dating around, isn’t it?”

“I just haven’t met anyone I like. Guess someone raised my standards.”

“Who’s that?”

“Are you interrogating me?”

“Just answer the question.”

His face, which had been tossing questions lightly, grew heavy. His already low voice deepened. My awkward gaze turned to the sky where the sunset was fading. How could I say, “It’s you”? The only person I’ve ever been curious about was a faceless man from my dreams. I sipped champagne, searching for an escape.

“I don’t want to spill in such a moodless conversation.”

When I dodged, Bell sharply turned his head away.

“How old are you, Bell?”

“Old.”

“How old?”

“Older than you can imagine.”

“Come on…”

What’s with the exaggeration? He’s probably in his early thirties at most. I laughed it off, stabbing a piece of steak he’d cut for me.

“No wonder you spoke informally from the start.”

“Want me to use formal speech?”

“No.”