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David is an accountant. It is a respectable, steady job, and he's good at it. He likes the symmetry, the numbers real and substantiated. He's good at balancing, at finding things that are lost, and providing answers to other people's questions. Everything in its right place.
So here, at his friend's cousin's girlfriend's party, he's not having such a great time. Everything not in its right place; him not back in his apartment, old movie he's seen a million times on the tv, half-made puzzle on the coffee table.
Him not able to call his mom.
He swirls the cheap, bitter beer in his cup, watches it form a whirlpool. The music is too loud, and he doesn't really know anyone here, and he forgot to cut the tag out of the new sweater he bought just for this party, and it's scratching his neck in a way that causes him to pinch his face in discomfort every so often.
He thought it would be good for him, to start saying yes to invitations again. This party, hosted by a tenuous connection at best, was supposed to remind him that being surrounded by company, by community was actually quite lovely. It was not working.
He stills his hand, watches the whirlpool spin, spin, then settle down. Then suddenly, the liquid is jumping out of the cup and spilling over his hand and onto his shirt. And then, the most beautiful voice:
"Oh! My gosh, I'm so sorry."
David looks up, finds the eye of the girl who just knocked into his arm and is reaching out to help steady it again. And he's so overwhelmed, and so surprised by the sudden contact, and god, shes so gorgeous, so lovely, that he can't think of anything to say, and so he just starts to apologize, over and over and over.
"I'm sorry. I— I'm so sorry, I was, I was in the way, I shouldn't have been— I'm sorry."
He's stammering and he's making a fool of himself and he wishes he had spent more time drinking this stupid shitty beer than playing with it like a child and she is so, so beautiful.
"You were not in the way," she says this, almost scoffing, as if it's the most ridiculous thing she's heard. "You were just standing there, that's not in the way, that's just where— where you're supposed to be." He can't help himself— he chuckles at her frustration.
She scowls at him. "Come on. It looks like you need some fresh air."
He lets her pull him through the crowd, nearly stumbling over his own feet, and for the first time in his life, he realizes he doesn't care where he's going, that he would follow her out the door, all the way home, accross the ocean, wherever she wants him, wouldn't even think twice.
Outside, on the terrace, she lights a cigarette, notices his digust and teasingly offers it to him. Laughs when he scrunches up his nose and shakes his head. She takes a long drag, and looks out over the railing. He watches her silently, tracing the soft lines of her profile, over her nose and down to her lips, her chin, the sweet slope of her neck.
"I'm David." He breaks the silence. She smiles at him.
"Yuna," offering her hand out to shake his, he takes it and he lets it linger a bit too long.
"What do you like, Yuna?"
It's a strange, awkward question, but David doesn't know what else he could possibly want to know, except for every little thing that lights Yuna up, everything that brings her joy, everything he could bring her that might make her stay.
Yuna clearly doesn't find the question strange at all, taking the invitation to begin talking and then never stop. David doesn't take his eyes off her the entire time, nodding along and murmering affirmations, laughing at her jokes and doing everything he can to keep her talking.
She talks about cooking, and writing, and swimming, and feminist literature, and hockey and hockey and hockey and hockey.
Then she tells him about her parents, and how they came to Montreal from Osaka, and how they make an effort to keep her connected to her heritage, and how her parents are where she gets her love of cooking, of art, of hosting others, of interior design.
It must be an hour, at least, until she finally returns the question.
David thinks. "Well, I played hockey." Yuna turns sharply. "For McGill." He takes a sip of his drink, watching her mouth drop and her eyebrow furrow over the edge of his cup. "Goalie."
For the first time all night, Yuna is speechless.
Until she isn't.
"You what?!" And it sounds like she's actually angry.
"Played hockey. For McGill. Goalie," he reapeats.
"And you didn't think to tell me that twenty minutes ago? When I was going on and on about hockey, and— and explaining it to you? You didn't think it might be something I wanted to know?"
David just smiles, a little sheepishly, a little teasingly. Yuna throws up her hands, mutters something about this is absolutely ridiculous, he didn't mention he played hockey, she can't believe it, and then she turns to go.
He doesn't even think about it, there really is no other option, he is where he is supposed to be, he is certain, and so is she, and so she shouldn't leave, and so—
"Stay."
It's not a request, or a command, or a plea, or a suggestion. It's just what he wants, and so he says it. Yuna turns, meets his eyes. Her scowl is now softened, as if she's searching for something from him, or in him. David chuckles softly, a little pleased to have rendered her speechless for the second time tonight. And then she stays.
They talk for hours after, taking small sips of their drinks in an attempt to make them last as long as possible. He tells her about hockey and McGill and growing up in Ottawa. Tells her about his friends and his favorite coffee shops.
They talk about grief, he's not sure who brought it up. Yuna talks about her first marriage, the child she conceived but never birthed. David tells her about his mother, her strength, her joy, her illness.
Conversation peters out. They don't speak for a while. Then, finally, Yuna turns, quickly and determinedly.
"Well? Aren't you going to kiss me?"
David laughs, he almost expected this. She is so devastatingly honest, and sure of herself, and bold, and expectant, and so he returns the intimacy.
"I'm sorry, Yuna, but I can't do that. If I kiss you, I'm gonna want to marry you."
She takes a step closer to him. When she speaks, her voice is lower, softer, slightly more timid than it had been all night.
"Do you mean that?" She stares up into David's eyes, and for all his nervousness this evening, he is completely calm in this moment.
He smiles softly, nods slowly. She kisses him.
-
They take the bus to Yuna's apartment. It's busy, a Saturday night with a limited route schedule, and so they stand, gripping the bar above them, David's hand on top of hers. She speaks animatedly about a co-worker of hers and he lets her vent, tries not to kiss her.
The bus wobbles around a turn, and David brings his hand to steady Yuna at the waist, and when the bus evens out again, he keeps it there.
They step out into the cold air and Yuna leads the way, a shockingly quick walker, keeping a little ahead of David the entire way and turning to speak to him over her shoulder. He loves that she doesn't slow down for him.
When they finally make it to her front door, she cuts herself off mid-sentence to grab him in a desperate kiss, and David laughs into her mouth at the ridiculousness of it, and then kisses her back just as needy.
Her apartment is small, and messier than he expects. Dishes piled up in the sink, clothes strewn upon a living room chair, books stacked in random corners.
There are magazines piled haphazardly on the coffee table next to a notepad with frantic scribbles and a mug left over from the morning. She takes his coat from him, throws it on top of an overflowing coat rack. It is an apartment lived in by a ferociously passionate woman.
Her room similarly reflects her character, closet door open, revealing a large collection of clothes somehow both perfectly organized and cluttered at the same time. Glasses on top of a book on the bedside table, laid open upside-down to keep track of the page.
Her bed is small but still takes up most of the apartment bedroom, and she pushes him down on it and stands at the the end, scrambling to take her own shirt off.
David leans back on his elbows and watches, mesmerized, briefly wishing he was the one doing that, pulling up her shirt to reveal the soft, purple bra with a bow in the middle, moving slow and languidly as he kissed her skin, but he figures there is plenty of time for all things.
She fucks exactly like you would expect, commanding and passionate, and David thinks he's retained his dopey smile the entire time, and he would feel embarrassed about it if he had half the mind to care.
After, they shower together and eat saltine crackers in the lowlight of the kitchen, swapping stories from their twenties.
Still just in their towels, David crouches down to read all the titles on her bookshelf, and she stands above him, her hands running softly through his hair and looking over his shoulder, giving her opinions on each one as he calls it out.
He sleeps over, because of course he does, and when he gets up, her side of the tiny bed is empty, still warm. He gets out of bed, walks to the kitchen, where he finds a note with loopy, scribbled handwriting.
-
David—
Told some girlfriends I would meet them for a workout class this AM. Left the coffee pot on, there are eggs and sausage in the fridge.
Stay.