He waits until I’m done laughing, then he says, “You bought flowers.”
It takes me a moment to remember the bouquet I left on the table. “Got them at the store to cheer up the place.”
“One looks like a tiger flower,” he says. “My birth flower.”
“Your what?”
“At home, each day is associated with a flower. That’s mine. When were you born?” He checks online when I tell him. “Primrose,” he reads from his phone after a moment. “It means loveliness. How accurate.”
Normally I’d shrug a comment like that off or laugh, but his compliment feels so genuine that it makes me warm.
“We should eat,” I say.
We both stand and reach for the wine at the same time, banging our heads together like a Three Stooges sketch. Instead of grabbing his own head, Jihoon reaches for me, his face creased with concern.
“I’m fine,” I say as his fingers touch my head. “You?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand moves over my hair, which has fallen out of its knot. “Your hair is down.” He runs his fingers through it, his eyes on mine. “You only wear it down at home, or with me.”
“I like it better this way,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice my shaky voice. I step back into the shadows. “Do you want some ramen?” It isn’t my favorite, but it’s fast and easy. Plus, thanks to Jihoon stockpiling it, we have a lot.
“What?” His eyes go huge as his mouth drops open.
“Ramen. For dinner?”
“To eat. Ramen to eat, you mean.” Jihoon starts laughing, but I don’t know what’s funny, and he won’t tell me. He shakes his head and blinks before he smiles at me. “Another time. Today we can cook together.”
He leads the way to the kitchen, and although the moment is lost, all I can think about is his hand on my hair and his eyes on mine.
I want more.
After dinner, Jihoon lies on the couch with his notebook propped on his knees. It’s warm in the room, and he’s shed his sweater to lounge in a V-necked shirt with short sleeves wide enough to show half his chest if he raises his arm. He seems completely unaware of how hot this is, and I beat back the urge to have him reach up and pass me things from high places.
I curl on the chair with a book I’ve been meaning to read for ages,but as usual I have trouble concentrating. My eyes are on the page, but my mind drifts away from the gritty but delicate coming-of-age story. Instead I think about Phoebe, of all people. We used to read in the library during summer afternoons, when the heat made time feel slow and endless. I thought those days would last forever, and now look at us. Barely talking. Estranged and uncaring. Or too scared to care, which might be even sadder.
Uncomfortable with these thoughts, I toss the book away and lie on the chair with my head on one arm and my legs on the other. Jihoon has unbuckled his watch and is staring at it with intent focus as he twirls it in a circle.
“That’s a nice watch,” I say. It’s got a modern 1960s look, with little lines instead of numbers on the white face and a brown leather band.
“It’s my favorite,” he says idly. “A masterpiece of craftwork. This is the watch that made the Swiss watch industry cry for mercy after they tried to change the rules on the Japanese.”
“What, that?”
“Yes, this.” He rolls it between his fingers. “I bought it to remind myself that improvement is iterative and constant and the work is up to you.”
I take the watch, still warm from his wrist, when he holds it out to me. It’s a classic watch design and doesn’t look special to me.
“The magic is underneath, because work happens under the surface,” he says. “The Japanese kept improving the mechanics until it looked like it might win a very prestigious Swiss competition. You can imagine how they would have taken a Japanese firm winning.”
“What happened?”
He buckles the watch back on. “They closed the competition and, when they reopened it, changed the rules so only Europeans could enter.”
“That’s so unfair!”
“Very.” Jihoon gives the watch a loving pat. “But who were the real winners in the end?”
I look at his notebook. “Is that what you’re working on? A song about watches?” This might be nosy, but I told him about my notebook. I’m owed a secret.