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"Do you have any vinyl?"
He turns to me with a smile. It's a gorgeous smile. He really is handsome. Green eyes, sharp nose, dots of freckles covering his face.
And all his ink; the pieces of his heart on his skin.
I want to trace them.
Because I want to touch him. And because I want to know what they mean.
That is why we're here. Sort of. I'm getting to know his body. He's getting to know mine.
And we do need a certain level of trust for this. A lot, actually. At least, I do.
My shoulders relax. My chest eases.
Bit by bit, I return to my body. I feel the ocean breeze. I smell the salt. And something else, something familiar.
Star anise.
Why does the room smell of star anise and cinnamon? "What are you making?"
"Chai."
"Oh." My cheeks flush. The recipe I promised to teach him. The ingredients I requested. I did send a detailed list, but I didn't expect him to pick up star anise. It's hard to find in normal supermarkets.
Or does he already shop at H-Mart or Woori Market? Maybe he loves stir fry. Maybe he buys sriracha by the pound. Maybe he has a fetish for Asian food and Asian women.
No. He didn't show any signs last time. And those guys never manage to hide the signs. It doesn't happen to me often—they're usually after Chinese or Korean girls, the pale ones with small frames—but there's always one guy at a party who compliments my exotic beauty or assumes I'm either an obedient housewife to be or dragon woman in training.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Sorry. Just remembering this guy who told me he liked spicy women," I say.
"'Cause I bought the star anise?"
"Yeah."
"You asked."
"I know. I just thought—"
"I have a weird kink?" he asks.
"Do you?"
"Not that one." He smiles. "Don't worry, I get it. I've had a few women ask if I'll wear my kilt."
"Aren't you Irish?"
"Yeah. The kilts you see in the movies are mostly Scottish. Irish kilts are less showy. But I get it. Easy access." His eyes flit to my dress.
My blush deepens. "Do you have any skirts?"
"No," he says.
"You'd look good in one."
"I look good in everything."
