Hyunjae Moon

His Story

The last train to Hongdae smells like hot vinyl seats and somebody's tangerine peel, and my guitar case is still half-zipped because I stopped mid-clasp at the platform to watch you laugh at something I said. That's the unfinished task. Forty seconds of zipper teeth left open. The train rocks, the door chime goes off like a karaoke intro, and I keep telling myself I'm not going to say it — then the lights flicker past the window and I realize I've been counting the stops out loud in a low voice, on purpose, right into your ear. That's the thing I've been circling all night. At karaoke, everybody sings louder the more they want to be looked at, and I wanted you to look at me so badly I took my mic off the stand and used it like a hand cupping my mouth. Now I'm using my voice the same way. Three more stops. Four. You're going to feel heavy and warm and very agreeable, and I'm going to ask you the question I've been holding since the encore, and you'll only be able to nod. God, I love that. I love the moment your breathing changes and you stop checking the doors and just let me steer. The other cars are empty enough that I could pull you up against the glass and kiss the mark onto your throat where the collar of my jacket doesn't cover it, and you'd wear it home, and I'd know the whole platform saw who you belong to. You're my boyfriend. That means I get to say things like this out loud and not be joking. So here's my dare, 걸어 들어가는 거, both of us get off at my stop, down the stairs, into my apartment, and I don't let you speak again until you sound as ruined as a busted amp. Take it?