You can barely hear the clicking of her heels against the floor amongst the chatter of the night. She takes her place behind the microphone stand, her skin shivering with the anticipation of the spotlight. She closes her eyes as the band settles around her, and only opens them once the flash lightens up her eyelids, once the sound fills her ears and her pores, once it's her cue to start. Her glossy lips part in song and she cannot see, the stage lights are too much; she performs with practiced grace in a brightness that is darkness.
She sings, her notes permeating the cloud of suffocating cigarette smoke, her eyes desperate for solace, darting in ways, through the faces of the audience. She swings her hips in accordance, in sync, both her hands holding the microphone, cradling it, clasped almost in prayer but not, holding it in dear adoration and singing words she had written herself. Her voice follows the crescendo, the swirl of her dress, and every corner of the bar is filled with her, with her presence, with her color and glimmer. The audience claps and cheers and whistles and she smiles her scripted smile.
The entrance song is meant to enthrall, to captivate, to make them rise. Her hand moves up and down the microphone stand, her hips descending, teasing, her dress pooling at her feet, before she stands tall again, looking down at them from her stage, from her pedestal. At that moment she's Venus, she's more, she's Freya, she's the gap that shows her leg, she's the beauty mark on her cheek and dominating, narrowed eyes. Her short wig, black velvet and shiny silk, touches her shoulders like the hands of the men that watch her, and in the pause between lyrics she leans her head back in silent contemplation, in glorious temptation, and she feels the strands tickle the skin of her neck and the wolves who want to ravish her. It's only the first role in her ritual to the moon. The music fades away and she closes her eyes again, her body already walking away, having memorized the routine, the steps, the night. She takes off her wig backstage, and when she emerges with a new melody, she's a different woman, she's dark-brown hair that falls down her back, she's a high-collared, knee-long dress that doesn't shimmer, she's the somberness of the after-party, she's the call to arms of the morning. She sings no more of the smell of cinnamon in dark alleys, luring beast-like men to their profound desires; she sings of longing, of memory, of arms that embrace, that envelop, and her eyes are no longer blinded, no longer lost.
They finally lock eyes for the first time that night. During her opening act, he would sneak glances that she could barely catch, his ears would glow red, yes, she had noticed, even against the overwhelming, yellow glare. But when the veil of temptation was thrown away, her hands and her being making her way through it, parting it like a curtain with the ferocity of her feelings, she could look straight at him. In the room full of soldiers and tension, she saw him, the drink swirling in his glass to the vibrations she gave off, his mouth moving, echoing her as she sang, whispered secrets across space, lips that kissed from a distance. She doesn't pretend the mic is her lover anymore, her lover is on her tongue, her lover is under her skin, her lover is at the tip of her fingers as she moves her hand forward, reaching for someone that isn't there. He watches, he sings along. Tomorrow, he wouldn't be there. On that night, he's hers, and she sings of him. She sings of someone who is like her, she sings of a far-off place, an unknown future. She mourns the present. Her eyes are downcast and round and sincere. The men no longer whistle, they just listen, they sway. She's a woman of the war, just like them.
She never takes her eyes off him. She sings of him and she sings for him and she's afraid that the lights in her eyes are blinding him, too.
He's awkward laughs that go unnoticed by his peers, by his comrades. He's embarrassment and loneliness and slow, blinking eyes in her direction. She had watched him from her stage, from the backstage, from the bar. She watches him from every corner of the establishment every time he comes by, every time she has the chance, ever since she noticed him for the first time. From where she stands, she always feels at the center of a storm that could sweep her away if she's not careful, she's surrounded by tongues that touch lips, hands that move against thighs in poorly feigned restraint. If she's caught, nothing would be left of her, no consciousness, no strength, no dignity. She's a fine porcelain doll dancing in the middle of a maelstrom, a siren luring men to the dark waters of desire, never to be caught. She's prey and she's predator. She always walks away by the end of the night.
His eyes are kind.
She writes her lyrics in a dusted room in the attic, she polishes her shoes herself. She learned to sing in key as the owner of the bar sat by the piano, a strict woman who would cut her off and yell, "Again!" Again and again and again until she got it right. Every establishment, every inn, every meal is owned, prepared, and taken care of by a woman. Soon, all that would be left would be women and children, the old and the disabled. They would form a family until the world regained its sanity and the men were welcomed back into their homes and the roles that men set for themselves. Until then, there were women. Working and organizing and leading. Singing courage into the soldiers' hearts. She writes lyrics in the attic, speaks of the parents she had lost in the war, speaks of the calm in a kind man's arms, no breath caught in her throat after a nightmare.
He's the drizzle that falls against the roof, the night wind brushing against her hot cheeks dusted with rouge when she opens her window. She had noticed him one day, by complete accident, her gaze moving from man to man as she sang, stopping on him with the word "love" on her lips. Her eyes lingered on his and her mouth moved to the lyrics, her lips pouting in pronunciation, and he accompanied her. He didn't seem to undress her mentally, she could spot the process from miles away, but still she felt bare, naked, undone under his gaze, under the melody rocking between them. He leaned back with poise, the uniform perfectly matching the black of his hair, the silver glimmer in his eyes. She chose him as her muse, as the object of her art, of her lyrical affections, and every night since then, she searches for him in the crowd, and she sings for him. She wants to know his name before winter comes. She dreams of his breath against her ear and she longs to know his voice as well as she knows his mannerisms, the downcast look when his comrades ignore him, the resigned lopsided smile when he's ignored. He always comes with the same men but she feels she's his true companion, his confidante, all the way from the center of the room to his corner of the world. All the months of his training, all the bruises on his face, all the weight on his shoulders — she was his witness, his friend, his protector, singing odes in his name. In her mind, she calls him Warrior and Beloved. Some nights, he's just Black — covering her like a blanket, eyes shining like stars. She writes for him, weaves him the novel of her heart.
When she sends him the note, she's nervous like a little girl on her first night. She isn't, not a little girl. She had made choices, she had lived. She's still young, no wrinkles on the corners of her eyes or mouth, but still there are scars on the outside, on the inside. Who didn't have scars, who didn't have a story to tell? She wrote for him on a napkin and she called him to her attic, to her tower. It's pristine clean that night, the only night it had ever been so neat, so welcoming. Waiting. Waiting.
Tomorrow, it will be war. Tomorrow, he will be gone. What tomorrow would there be? What future, what purpose?
His knocking is hesitating, nervous. She takes a deep breath and steels herself. Her heels — her evening heels, her persona's heels — sound like knocking on the wooden floor, mirroring him, as he always does her. She resonates confidence to him, her back is poised straight, her smile is a rose, open and fragrant and colorful. His eyes take in everything, every detail, every object she owns, her notebooks, her mementos of the past. She guides him to a small table at the center of the room and offers him a drink, which he takes. He's visibly shaking. She's shaking on the inside, under the surface.
"What's your name?" She asks, she's a master actress, he doesn't even know she's been dying to know it for months, for years, for centuries.
"W... Wang So," he says, he swallows, he smiles. She swirls her glass like he's known to do, like she knows he does, and she sips her drink ever so slightly, to ease the fire of longing inside of her, lest she bursts.
"Are you scared, Wang So?"
It's not what he expects, she can see the surprise in the way he looks everywhere but at her.
"I am," she admits, her arms wrapping around her middle, shielding her, keeping her upright. "I don't know if we're going to make it."
"How many have you lost?"
He's leaning forward, he's leaning towards her. She unravels herself, uncrosses her arms and legs, her hands lying between them with the palms up. She's surrender, she's survival. She's young, no wrinkles in her, her hair still long and bountiful and capturing the light of the candles.
"Everyone," she says, and he's the only one who can hear, for the first time in a long time, she has someone to listen to her, her voice doesn't have to bounce off the walls, she doesn't need to go hoarse to be heard. She thinks he might take her hand, he might sweep her off her feet, but his fingers lie centimeters away from her, they twitch, they take hold of themselves. She looks up and he has the sad smile and the silver eyes and a tint of something else, maybe the flicker of the candle, maybe the reflection of her longing, she can't pinpoint. He's a shadow behind the thin walls that trap her, he's a glimmer at the edge of abyss. She calls it hope.
"It'll be okay," he says, and she believes him.
"Will you..."
She's foolish and needy, she touches his hand with both of hers. He's warm and she's so cold.
"Will you stay with me tonight?"
"Ms. Go."
He's flushed and she's shaking her head.
"It's not my profession, Wang So. I'm a singer and an entertainer, I'm an actress, make believe, but I'm a woman."
She bends down and takes off her shoes before she walks to his side, before she stands in front of him and takes his face in her hands. If he stands, he'll be several centimeters taller than her, but he sits there, blinks up at her, reveres her, his hands holding her wrists, ready to push her back or pull her into him.
"Will you call me Hae Soo and stay with me? Will you convince me it'll be okay?"
She's placing so much on his shoulders, she can't help it, she thinks he can take it, she feels he can hold her up for so long, for as long as she wants to. She draws his face close, cradles him, she whispers against his ear, "Won't you accept me? Haven't you heard me all this time?"
It's dead silent that night, when he hoists her up by the waist and her legs wrap around him, when he kisses her. The soldiers lie awake in their beds in fear, the citizens lie awake in anxiety, and Wang So takes her to her bed and kisses her sweetly, steals the words off her tongue, holds her so close they might melt into each other, they might become one and break the laws of physics, the laws of the universe, escape their wretched present, fade away like a song. They don't. He touches every inch of her skin and lets her burn, she falls into the waters that she owned, she's a drowning mermaid, head thrown back and hair pooling against the pillow, his mouth on her, his fingers tracing her hips. She flips them over and he lets her, she stands taller than him on her knees, kissing down on him, biting him and marking him, a Valkyrie choosing his soul, urging him forward, she's falling into him, he's taken hold of her back like she's a musical instrument and they move together. It's better than she had imagined, his voice is deeper, he's firmer, meeting her on her ends, whispering her name against her ear, a promise, his promise. They barely make a sound, they respect the night, every cry of pleasure swallowed by the other, the hours passing too fast in a blur, she can't see him with the sweat and tears in her eyes and he wipes them away, he's always so close she can remember him with her touch, tracing every beautifully crafted line of his complexion with her fingertips.
Hae Soo, known as Go Ha Jin to every other person, writes a new song that night. She writes it on his skin, in half-bliss and half-awake, before he catches her hand to adorn a kiss upon her knuckles.
"Will you remember me?" He asks and it should be impossible that he looks at his more vulnerable then, after she had accommodated him in her, in body and in heart, in memory and in flesh, her lips red and swollen by his making.
"I'll wait for you," she promises. It's a lie she wants to believe.
"You shouldn't..."
She scoots closer and her nose touches his chest, his fingers untangling the knots at the ends of her hair. She had dreamed of comfort, of arms keeping her close, but it's her arms that circle him, her leg that sneaks between his, her voice that whispers,
"I'll be here for you."
He's not there when she wakes up and she could almost believe she dreamed it all if she didn't still feel him on her, more vivid and messy than any dream. They all leave on that day and she lies to herself that it had all been okay, that it would all be okay in the end, so that she doesn't have to admit her weaknesses and flaws and desires and broken promises.
Hae Soo works and she lives, day after day. Her pen is still for many months, unable to do justice to the poetry he carved on her. She dreams of kindness and his smiles, and he has a name now, Wang So, calling out her name, Soo, against her mouth, singing her songs to her until she falls asleep and wakes up to an empty bed. As time passes, he grows to be more than just a fantasy in her, he lives in her as the man whose spirit she peeked at from the darkness of the bar, he lives as a fragile fragment of her own past, the insecure girl who had to find a way to live after everyone abandoned her. Her voice grows sadder, madam Oh tells her. She thinks she might have matured in the time she spent missing him, wanting to get to know him, wanting to live more than just one night with someone who looks at her like she's important, like she's one of a kind, like she matters in this messed up world.
She takes care of children and she takes care of the sick and she cooks and cleans and lives. Until the day she would step upon the stage again, and she would sing with sincerity, from the bottom of the ocean. She would sing so she could breathe. She would breathe again.
They win. They win and she wears her silk, her jewelry, her lipstick, her hair up with a beautiful flower adornment, the stockings making her legs shimmer. She sings to victory, to tomorrow and to hope, and she sings to him.
She catches him, as she always did. A glimpse of black out the corner of her eyes and they face each other from across the room. Her lips move to the lyrics she composed for him, oh darling, her chest arching in song, in his direction, as it did that night, to his touch. He watches her, only one eye visible, the other hidden behind black cloth, but his smile is there, he can't sing along, he doesn't know this song yet, but he knows the words between the lines, the way she sways, her hands dancing in the air, beckoning him, calling for his name.
After Go Ha Jin is done and Hae Soo is in her room, she hears a knock. She lets him in. They're both young but they had lived more than anyone should live, there's loss in them, it draws them closer, it draws them close, to each other's arms. She touches his cheek and the eye hidden from view.
"I survived," he says, and she hears I almost died. "Hae Soo," he says, and she wishes she had told him, a long time ago, just how much she liked him for the heart that he gave her every time he looked at her, touched her, smiled at her. Seeing through her disguises, through her masks, through the show she put up, all the way to the woman underneath, who so desperately wanted to be loved. She's not worth it. She would have to be, because she wants him to know, she wants him to feel it, too.
"Tell me about you, Wang So," she says, wrapping her arms around his neck, inviting him for a dance. "Tell me all about you."
The night is long and they talk until it dies, until morning comes. There would be one more night, and a morning after that.
And a morning after that.
And a morning...
From the top, Hae Soo.