Chapter Text
It was always the same:
Rumi stood in their kitchen, happily humming away to herself. The sleeves of Jinu’s borrowed (stolen) hoodie rolled up to her elbows, free from an accidental dipping in the bubbling dakjuk. Derpy, their Bengal cat, fussed around her feet.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the Seoul morning sun warming the nape of her neck. She sang a few lines of the song she was workshopping and leaned over the boiling pot. A deep inhale of the umami scent was followed by a rumbling in her stomach.
She avoided the loose floorboard, where a nail stuck through the wood, and bopped away from the stove to the kettle. It was a dance she had perfected since they moved in a year prior.
The apartment they rented was the only one they could find with their meagre combined savings post graduation. The money Rumi’s mom left her all went on her tuition, and besides, Rumi wanted to earn her way.
It was situated in the heart of Seongsu-dong, a small hole-in-the-wall apartment, flanked on either side by a new boutique and cafe. It was a fixer-upper, with peeling wallpaper, loose screws and cracked tiles, but they made it theirs. Jinu did what he could to fix most of the issues, but some were outside of his limited knowledge.
Like most landlords, theirs dragged his heels on fixing anything they flagged, and if he did, it would be a half assed job. But, Rumi couldn’t complain, considering the low rent they paid.
One such issue was the outlet right by the kettle. It never worked, and the first time Rumi plugged the kettle in, a small spark popped. They nixed using that outlet and instead used the other, on the opposite side of the hob.
Jinu padded into the kitchen, dressed for rehearsals, his deep green Henley hugging his toned body. He gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before moving to grab vegetables from the fridge, intent on making up various banchan to go with their breakfast, as was their ritual. Rumi sang softly, sharing a smile with Jinu when he joined in, having heard Rumi working on the song for the last month.
They moved in tandem, Jinu preparing the vegetables, and Rumi finishing off the dakjuk. Rumi, so wrapped up in her head with her song, the warmth of the sun and Jinu’s comforting presence, didn’t think. She moved on autopilot, picking up the plug for the kettle and moving to the broken outlet. She barely registered Jinu’s sharp, warning “Rumi!”
A bright white light. A crack of electricity, so loud it boomed in Rumi’s ears. Black.
Ringing.
Loud, ear-bleeding ringing.
Heat. An inferno engulfed her.
Rumi came to, outside. A large crowd swarmed the apartment. Firefighters swarmed like worker bees, running to and from the blazing inferno, eating away at the brickwork. Scorching heat ran up her arms, a million pinpricks sinking into her skin. The bands of the oxygen mask dug into her head. She sucked in a breath, a horrible hacking noise escaping her.
Derpy’s yowls cut through the cacophony of screams and shouts. A firefighter held the terrified cat in her arms; his striped fur was blackened by soot. Rumi tried to lift her arm, wanting to console her little guy, but they wouldn’t move. A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up to a kind-faced EMT. They were speaking to her, but Rumi couldn’t make sense of their words.
“J-” She coughed, smoke and soot covered her vocal cords. “Jinu?” She managed, her breath ragged and sharp. The EMT’s face twisted, and they spoke again, their voice muffled by the rolling heat and thumping in Rumi’s ears.
A gurney rolled out from the building. She caught a flash of deep green and scorched skin, before a white sheet covered it.
Rumi woke up with a start. Sweat drenched her neck; her shirt clung to her skin. It was always the same. Over a year has passed, and the nightmare never changed. No, not a nightmare. Memory. Rumi’s stomach twisted; the smell of smoke and burnt flesh was as invasive in her memory as it was on that day.
Derpy roused from his curled position at the foot of her bed and stretched, his paws reaching out to touch the edge of her calf. Comforting. Grounding. Rumi leaned forward and scooped her baby boy up, holding him close to her chest. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, happily curling up in her hold, purring loudly when she scratched behind his ear. She nuzzled the top of his head with her nose and inhaled deeply, comforted by his signature scent, clean and synonymous with Derpy.
A phantom scratch pulled at her throat, as if the smoke was still irritating the organ. She coughed, gently so as not to startle Derpy. Rumi stayed cuddled with Derpy, the residual fear and panic from her nightmare washing away—until Derpy wiggled, finished with their cuddling and now moving on to much more important matters. Food.
Derpy jumped from Rumi’s arms and hopped off the bed. He padded to her bedroom door, stopped sharply and turned back around. He meowed impatiently. Rumi laughed, quietly, barely above a whisper. It's as loud as her voice would go now, if she made any sound at all. She followed the self-appointed master of the house out of her room and began their morning ritual.
Derpy ran on his exercise wheel, the light rumble of the wood and pitter-patter of his feet a solace to Rumi in her mornings. She avoided the cooker and went straight to Derpy’s cupboard, grabbing a collection of cat food sachets. At the sound of the cupboard opening, Derpy stopped his morning run and bounded over to Rumi, his tail alert and excited.
Rumi crouched down and splayed the flavours of cat food out like a pack of cards to Derpy. “Pick.” She croaked, her voice rough from disuse.
Only Derpy hears her voice now, his company being the only one she’s comfortable around to allow herself to speak. Even then, it’s usually no more than a couple of words at a time—mainly his name, said in various tones depending on what he is doing.
It frightened Rumi on the first day after the fire when she tried to answer the doctors, but no words would come out. Her throat clamped shut, and as hard as she tried, no sound would leave her. She cried tears of frustration when the problem continued, even when Celine came to visit. Her aunt wanted her to speak, and Rumi tried, but nothing would come out.
“There’s no damage to your vocal chords, which is surprising considering the smoke inhalation. It’s likely trauma-induced.” The doctor said when Celine voiced the concerns Rumi could not. “You should be back to normal in a few days.”
She wasn’t. The lack of speech continued, and Rumi’s days were filled with frustrated silence. She wanted to shout when the bandages on her arms were removed and she saw the extent of the damage the fire had caused. Instead, only silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
The tears became hotter and fatter when she saw the state of Jinu’s hoodie—blackened in spots, the sleeves charred and all but gone. She wanted to scream when Celine, in her blasé tone, suggested throwing the garment away. She didn’t understand Rumi’s visceral reaction, but relented nevertheless. It sits folded up in the back of her wardrobe now.
Celine took her to a speech therapist. The therapist told them to be patient, assuring them that Rumi’s voice would come back in time. She stressed not to push Rumi to speak and to make her feel as comfortable as possible. Well, that was useless when it came to Celine’s company. Rumi hadn’t felt comfortable around her aunt in years; her desire to push Rumi to be a better singer, a better woman, a better Rumi, drove the two further apart over the years.
A year on, and Rumi is no closer to speaking to anyone but Derpy. When it became clear to her that she may never talk to another person again, at least not in the traditional sense, Rumi learned sign language. When Rumi learned the hard way that very few able hearing people knew KSL, she took to using her phone and the Notes app.
If you were to scroll through Rumi’s Notes app, you’d find various notes ranging from the mundane to specific conversations: Hello, I’m fine, thank you, and you? One taro boba please; Yes, I don’t speak; No, it’s not for weird reasons; Do you have non-clumping cat litter?
The worst consequence of Rumi’s mutism is her inability to sing. Everything she worked towards and studied for went down the drain in a matter of seconds. Songs she had hopes of releasing, performances she dreamt of doing—gone. Her singing was the one piece of confidence she had. She was a damn good singer, brilliant, even. It was how she and Jinu met, and now, it’s gone.
Rumi is pulled from her melancholy when Derpy chirps, his big yellow eyes blinking at her. Lost in her thoughts, she had pulled the cat food sachets out of Derpy’s reach, and he was none too pleased. Rumi smiled apologetically at him and held them back into position. Derpy watched her for a moment before leaning forward, his nose sniffing daintily along each packaging. He made his choice, rubbing his cheek along the edge of the duck-flavoured packaging.
Rumi nodded and gave him a two-finger salute. She dutifully filled his bowl up, giggling when he excitedly ran between her legs, his meows growing in impatience because she was clearly taking much too long to serve the master.
Once served, Derpy munched away happily, all his concentration focused on his cat-eared bowl. Rumi ate with him, using the tub of leftovers in her fridge for breakfast. She didn’t use the cooker anymore, or the kettle. She couldn’t.
Derpy finished before her and hopped up onto the breakfast bar beside her, watching her spoon food into her mouth. Rumi looked at him reproachfully and pointed to the stool beside her. He didn’t move, eyes still focused on her food. Waiting. The act tugged at Rumi’s heart, a habit Jinu had instilled in Derpy because he always gave the furry tyrant a bite of his breakfast.
Derpy’s stubbornness is unbeatable, and so Rumi finally relented. She fished a small piece of chicken out of her bowl. Derpy reached for it, but Rumi shook her head, pulling the chicken out of reach, high above her head. It did not deter Derpy, who stood on his hind legs, one paw balanced on her elbow, the other reaching as far as he could to the chicken. Rumi cleared her throat and pointed to the stool beside her again. “Sit.” She commanded.
Derpy weighed his options. Continue trying to grab the chicken from mom and fail, or follow orders just this once and be rewarded? He chose the latter and jumped down to the stool. Rumi smiled, scratched his chin and placed the chicken on the stool in front of him. She bounced in her seat happily. Small victories.
Breakfast continued like so, with Rumi feeding Derpy a few extra pieces of chicken until her bowl was empty. Derpy went and curled up on the settee, having a well-earned nap. Once her bowl was placed in the high spec dishwasher with a myriad of functions Rumi would never get round to using, she got showered and dressed for the day.
The new apartment was large, much too large for a twenty-four-year-old and her cat. It was situated in Hongdae, in a high-rise building on the penthouse floor. It was too lavish for Rumi with large floor-to-ceiling windows, a spacious open plan living room/kitchen and two extra rooms Rumi didn’t need. Celine had picked it out whilst Rumi was still bed-bound in the hospital, using some of the money Rumi got from the lawsuit to pay for it. She refused to allow Rumi to choose another apartment for herself.
“Look how it turned out.” Celine had said, not unkindly, but definitely not without blame. Rumi was too hurt and broken to argue with her and so relented.
The ensuite shower was as gaudy as the rest of the apartment. A large, rainfall showerhead hung from the ceiling, with multiple dials mounted to the wall to change temperature, pressure and even aroma. It was divided by a slick glass screen, newly installed and untouched by limescale or rust. A pristine clawfoot tub sat on the opposite end, with a double sink mounted in the middle and an expansive backlit mirror stretching along the wall above. It was too much. All of it was too much.
Rumi leaned against the sink basin, hair damp from her shower, and a towel wrapped firmly around her body. Her arms stretched on either side of her, her hands holding the porcelain basin in a white knuckle grip. She chanced a glance at the scars running up her arms. Like lightning bolts, the scar tissue stretched and pinched her skin, sharp and angular in their journey up, coming to a harsh stop just shy of her collarbones. A single tendril of scarring broke from the path at her collarbones, travelling south, under the edge of her towel, where it settled in a spiderweb over her heart.
The scarring is long healed, now only pale scar tissue marred her otherwise unblemished skin on her arms. Her chest was a different story. In certain lighting, the tissue would catch the light, and it would look like a pearlescent ripple travelled along the scars. Rumi remembered the fear when she first saw them, still pink and raw, ugly in their angles—a permanent reminder of her loss. It's her fault. All of it. Her voice, these scars…Jinu-
Rumi’s stomach dropped, and hot tears burned in her eyes. She dug the heel of her palm into her eyes, refusing to allow the tears to fall. She can’t-It won’t do her any good to think about it. That’s what Celine said. Thinking about it will only make it more complicated. It’ll only set her back five paces.
A knock sounded at the front door. Rumi straightened.
“Rumi?” Celine’s voice called. Rumi exited the en suite to the hallway, clicked off the latch on the door then moved back to her room to get changed. The less time Celine was in the apartment, the better. She pulled on her usual hoodie, a simple grey pullover, and tugged on the sleeves, fisting the end in each hand. She used to have one similar, but it had a custom cartoon of Derpy on it. It was a birthday gift from Jinu. It didn’t survive the fire. Nothing did.
Rumi walked from her room, backpack slung over her shoulder and headphones hanging around her neck. Her hair was still damp and loose around her shoulders. She didn’t have the energy to put it into her braid today. She found Celine perched on the arm of the settee, legs crossed and hands folded in her lap, a sizable space between the regal woman and Derpy, who watched Celine with sharp eyes—ever Rumi’s dutiful, fluffy sentry.
“Have you got work today?” Celine asked in lieu of greeting, her dark eyes glancing over Rumi in one quick sweep.
Rumi nodded once, her hand tapping against the strap of her backpack, an anxious tic. Celine’s stare unravelled Rumi, pulling her apart piece by piece. She hated it, the way her aunt could make her feel so small with one look.
She never used to, not when Rumi’s mom was alive. Back then, Celine’s watchful eyes were warm and protective—a comfort rather than oppressive. She was open, a home away from home. But once the funeral was done, and Rumi moved in with her, Celine changed. Her protectiveness became overbearing.
Rumi’s respite came when she enrolled at Seoul University, and she finally moved out. It didn’t stop the weekly calls from Celine, the demands she pressed on Rumi, reminding her of her mother's legacy after each failed test or subpar performance. Jinu was her only escape from it, the one person who didn’t push her to be more, to be better. He only wanted her to be.
Now, he was gone, and Celine was still here, pushing and pressing and prodding and moulding Rumi to get better, despite the therapist’s warnings.
“Are you going to work front of house today? Or squirrel away in the back?” Always pushing. Do better.
Rumi’s lips twisted, and she looked away from Celine’s gaze. She shrugged, and she didn’t need to look at Celine to see her disappointment. She could feel it in the silence that followed.
Celine spoke once the silence teetered on the edge of tense. “Come here, let me fix your hair.”
Whilst the words were gentle, they carried an air of command. One that Rumi shouldn’t ignore. She dutifully followed her order, dropping her backpack to the ground and walking to sit in front of the settee. Celine shifted off the arm and onto the cushions, closing the gap between her and Derpy. Derpy immediately jumped down and moved to crawl into Rumi’s lap, his gaze fixed over Rumi’s shoulder.
Rumi’s shoulder tensed at the first touch of Celine’s fingers in her hair, and she held her breath, fearing any slight movement would jostle Celine too much. She ran her fingers through Derpy’s soft fur, his presence anchoring her in place whilst Celine meticulously worked on her braid. There was a time when Rumi loved having Celine do her hair, mastering her braid in a way that Rumi’s mom never could. Now, she was counting the seconds until she could shift away from the woman.
“There,” Celine announced, once done. Her finger reached out to tuck a stray hair behind Rumi’s ear. Rumi locked every muscle in her body to stop herself from flinching. “All done.”
Derpy jumped off Rumi’s lap, standing guard as Rumi stood from the floor and bent to grab her backpack. One of her sleeves had shifted further up her arm in her movement. She paid it no mind.
Celine, however, clocked it, her eyes glancing sharply to the scar peeking out from under the material. “I put some leftovers in your fridge.” She said, standing up. “I know you have the money now, Rumi, but it’s not healthy to live off of takeout. Try cooking again. I can’t be the one feeding you. You’re an adult, now.”
A command, again. Not a suggestion. Disappointed. All hidden under her words, covered by her gentle tone.
Celine reached out and tugged on the sleeve that had rolled high on Rumi’s forearm, pulling it back over the scar. She tapped the back of Rumi’s hand once. There, perfect again. Rumi tightened her grip on her backpack, her cheek twitching at the touch and silent order. Stay hidden.
“I’ll call you next week.” Answer it. Don’t ignore.
Then, Celine was gone, and the tense bubble that filled the apartment popped. Rumi exhaled and rubbed a tired hand over her eyes; the few hours of sleep she managed to get last night were all but gone from that one interaction. She shared a look with Derpy. He rubbed his cheek against her ankle. I’m here.
Rumi reached down and scratched under his chin. Thank you.
Bobby’s Records was a small bohemian record shop, a ten-minute walk away from Rumi’s apartment. A popular boba shop sat next to it, and the coming and going of their customers meant the shop had a steady flow of patrons browsing or waiting for the line at the boba shop to die down.
Bobby’s had a few regulars who would come in weekly, either to donate records or to buy the new stock they received. The shop’s main sale was records, but they also stored a small collection of cassette tapes and CDs for those who now thought records were too mainstream. In the back corner, there was a small section of guitars—some new, most donated by owners who tried to learn and gave up, or by family members whose kin had passed away..
Bobby was a short man with whiskers on his upper lip and kind eyes. He hired Rumi on the spot and didn’t bat an eye when she communicated with him via her phone. After Rumi’s first interaction with a less-than-patient customer, Bobby never forced her to work the shop floor, unless he had to run off to the toilet. He was more than happy for Rumi to work out in the back, taking inventory or testing the donated records for quality and playability. With no affinity for musical talent, Bobby soon asked Rumi if she could regularly tune and work on the guitars, ensuring they were in good enough condition to sell.
Rumi enjoyed those days most, sitting out in the back with a guitar in her hands, working to get it back into playable shape.
She knew the basics when it came to guitars, which was enough to recognise when they were out of tune or if the strings needed changing. She could play the basic chords, which actually allowed her to play most pop songs with ease. With her voice out of action, it was one of her only escapes into music, now. Jinu taught her what she knew. He was the guitarist of the two of them.
Today was one of those days. Rumi sat in the back, a recently donated Billie Holiday record playing softly in the background, as she worked to tune an acoustic guitar donated over the weekend. The strings were old and needed replacing, so she stopped her mindless finger plucking and got to work unwinding them.
She had just snipped the excess off the D string when Bobby popped his head round, his joy-filled smile ever present on his face.
“How’s it going, Rumi?”
Rumi dropped the pliers and slowly moved her hands, signing her answer. Bobby watched her hands closely, eyes intent and focused. When Bobby learned Rumi could sign, he began teaching himself the basics. This small act made Rumi feel more welcome here than any interaction she had with Celine, even though Celine was fluent in KSL. He was no expert on the language, and Rumi had to make sure to sign at a slower pace than usual, but he would grasp the gist of what she was saying.
“All good, just switching the strings.”
A few seconds passed as Bobby translated her movements in his head. Rumi waited patiently, a small smile on her face. Her hands rested on top of the guitar, running over the smooth wood of the body.
Bobby’s face lit up, “Great! I think we can peddle that one at a higher price, whaddya say?”
Rumi tilted her head and glanced over the guitar. It could use a cleaning; dust still clung to the fretboard. She sighed; she should’ve done that before putting on the new strings. She picked up her phone, knowing her answer will be too long for Bobby to translate easily, and typed,
“If I cleaned it and maybe put a fresh lacquer on the wood, then sure. But I think it could sell fine as is. It plays beautifully.”
Bobby weighed the options, then, with a click of his tongue, he waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, don’t worry about all that, then. Just change the strings and that baby will be good to sell.”
A couple of seconds passed as Rumi typed on her phone. “You sure? I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, no use doing all that work if it’ll only be a small markup.” He glanced over his shoulder, then jabbed a thumb out to the shop floor. “Would you mind keeping an eye on the shop for a couple of minutes. I know I don’t usually ask, but it's quiet out there and the new bakery just put out fresh dasik, I wanna get there before they’re all gone.”
Rumi hesitated, and seeing her hesitation, Bobby broke out his best pout and puppy dog eyes. “Please? It’ll be ten minutes tops, and I’ll bring you a boba tea?”
Rumi rolled her eyes, smiling in amusement at her boss’s theatrics. She shrugged and waved him off. Bobby bounced in place, saying multiple thank yous as Rumi stood and followed him out to the shop floor.
The store was quiet. Not a single customer was inside. Rumi spotted the sizable line at the bakery through the windows. Bobby noticed it too and inhaled sharply, pausing at the door. Then he turned to Rumi. “Ten minutes, then I’ll be back, either with dasik or none—but I really hope with some dasik.”
Rumi signed quickly, her phone lying forgotten in the stock room. “Will I still get my boba?”
“Of course!” Bobby replied, affronted that Rumi would suggest he’d break a promise.
Rumi waved him off again, and she was alone in the shop. Her hands tapped along to the music playing from the record Bobby had placed in the shop record player, easily following the beat. She didn’t recognise the band; pop punk wasn’t her genre of choice, but Bobby liked it. She could see the appeal in the music —not as harsh on the instruments as regular punk or as anti-establishment, but not sugary sweet like some pop.
Five minutes passed, and the line for the bakery grew longer. Rumi could see Bobby standing near the front of the queue, bouncing in place with thinly concealed excitement. The record came to a stop, the sound of the needle scratching over nothing sounding through the shop speakers. Rumi turned and started thumbing through the stack of records behind the counter, skipping over albums she wasn’t fond of.
She froze when she came to a Sunlight Sisters album. Her mom and Celine stare up from the cover, coy smiles on their young faces. It was their first album, and the fastest in K-pop history to go platinum. She remembers her mom showing her their performance at the Idol Awards, where they sang the hit single from the album.
Rumi was entranced as she watched them perform, awestruck by their grace and poise on the biggest stage of their careers. Rumi’s desire to become an Idol started that afternoon, and the next day, her mom and Celine began teaching her everything they knew.
“Is that for sale?”
Rumi jerked, her hand hitting the needle of the record player and causing a harsh scratch to sound through the speakers. She flinched at the harsh sound, her ears ringing, cheeks blushing fiercely and slowly turned around.
The young woman in front of her was cringing, a hand to her ear, the other holding a stack of vinyls. Her face relaxed after a moment, her finger wiggling in her ear as she smiled, bright and warm in Rumi’s direction. Rumi was floored by the smile, feeling like the warmth of a thousand suns was beaming down on her.
The young woman shook her head, her dark brown space buns bouncing from side to side. Amusement danced in her large, round eyes, and she tugged at the bottom of her bright yellow hoodie, smoothing out the wrinkles formed from her cringing.
“Whoa!” The woman said, a light laugh following. “Better make sure that record isn’t scratched to heck. Sorry for scaring you, I’ll pay for the damages.” Her voice was light, like the fluffiest cloud in the spring sky, with a hint of an American accent cutting through her pronunciation.
Rumi blinked. Even if she could speak, no words would leave her now. The mix of being spooked and floored shut down all her brain functions.
The woman continued to smile, unfazed by Rumi’s silence and dumbfounded stance. Rumi’s hand was still half reaching for the record needle, the Sunlight Sisters record hanging limply in the other.
“Hopefully it’s not too expensive,” The woman continued, stepping closer to the counter. She placed her mountain of records on top, folded her arms and leaned forward. “I am but a humble student on a humble student budget after all, can’t go breaking the bank and have nothing left for ramyeon.”
Rumi shook her head, her brain rebooting as she processed the woman’s words. She reached for her pocket, her stomach dropping when she felt only vast emptiness and no phone.
Shit.
Ok, second option.
She placed the Sunlight Sisters vinyl down beside the woman’s stack, hoping she’d understand. Rumi signed her answer, but the woman’s eyes stayed on hers, not her hands.
Rumi finished signing and stood still. The woman’s gaze remained locked on Rumi, and warmth crept up the back of Rumi’s neck. She waited, watching the young woman’s smile fall ever so slightly. She blinked once and shook her head, her hands now finally glancing at Rumi's still hands. The woman’s gaze softened, her blush deepening.
Rumi refused to let herself think about how cute she looked. No, not cute at all. Especially not that confused pout.
Absolutely not.
“Sorry, I think I spaced out there,” The woman said, embarrassed.
Rumi signed again, slower, smiling. The woman finally focused on Rumi’s hands, dawning realization crossing her features. Still not cute, Rumi thought.
“Ah shit,” The woman muttered, “I knew I should’ve actually watched Mira sign instead of just watching her when she tried to teach me.” She sighed dramatically, leaning forward on her crossed arms. She looked up at Rumi, her pout back in full force, eyes wide. Bobby’s pout had nothing on this woman. Rumi studiously ignored the flutter in her chest. “She’s just so pretty, it’s hard not to watch her. Seriously. If you looked up beautiful in the dictionary, her pic would be there, all gorgeous and perfect.”
Rumi couldn’t help but smile at the dejected woman’s forlorn expression. She could grab her phone and put the woman out of her self-induced misery, but it was just too amusing to let her continue.
The woman’s eyes widened, and her hand reached out, not quite touching Rumi, but close. “Not that you’re not beautiful, because wow, you-” She stopped, a look of realisation crossed her face “-I mean, no, wait, no, you are beautiful, but I wasn’t hitting on you, I have a girlfriend-”
Rumi ignored her chest squeezing.
“-A stunning girlfriend, Mira. I mentioned her, right? My girlfriend Mira-” The woman stopped abruptly and lowered her head down into her arms. “Jeez, Zoey, stop rambling at the deaf woman.” It was muffled, but Rumi heard it.
Rumi took the opportunity to slip into the back and grab her phone. The woman, Zoey—Rumi, took a moment to turn the name over in her head, wondering what it would feel like coming out of her mouth—no, stop, focus—Zoey still had her head in her arms when Rumi came back, mumbling away to herself.
Rumi typed out on her phone and then tapped her fingers against Zoey’s arm to gain her attention. Zoey lifted her head, her cheeks flushed. Her gaze turned to Rumi’s phone, the screen facing her, and her eyes lit up in recognition. She began to read Rumi’s message out loud.
“I’m not deaf. The vinyl is for sale; you don’t need to pay for damages; your student bank account will survive another day. The only thing you might have damaged was your own psyche-” Zoey stopped to groan, flashing a bashful smile at Rumi, “-Yes, you did mention your girlfriend Mira, who is so beautiful that the dictionary has a picture of her instead of the definition.”
Zoey puffed up her cheeks and exhaled slowly. Rumi watched her silently, not bothering to hide her amusement. Zoey narrowed her eyes playfully, spotting the expression on Rumi’s face. “You enjoyed that too much. Do you get a kick out of teasing people?”
Rumi shrugged and, without thinking, signed her answer. “Only the pretty ones.” She paused, her words catching up with her. Zoey was focused on her hands, her face scrunched up. Shit. She just acknowledged Zoey had a girlfriend and still shamelessly flirted with her. Rumi wasn't one to flirt ordinarily, but Zoey's aura pulled it out of a deep pocket in Rumi's mind. Rumi stared at her hands, betrayed by her own limbs.
Zoey smiled good-naturedly. “I’m going to guess that was a compliment and not a comment on my lack of rizz.” Zoey stood up straight, pulling her stack of vinyls close to her. “Ignorance is bliss, as they say.”
Rumi smiled, her hands tugging on the ends of her sleeves habitually. She gestured to Zoey’s stack and then the Sunlight Sisters’ vinyl, her eyebrow raising in question. Zoey watched her for a moment, shook her head and then grinned. She patted the top of her stack.
“Ring me up, boss!” She declared, shifting to lean against the counter again.
Silence fell over the two as Rumi got to work counting up the vinyls and neatly stacking them in a box for Zoey. She felt Zoey’s eyes on her the whole time, silently tracking her movements. Rumi refused to look up, knowing a blush would grace her cheeks if she did. She’s not used to the attention; most customers stay locked on their phones the few times Rumi has worked out front, barely sparing her a glance as she milled around.
“I’m Zoey, by the way.” The gentle tone of Zoey’s voice broke Rumi from her repetitive movements, and she finally looked up at the younger woman. Zoey was smiling softly, her eyes warm and open. She held out a hand.
Rumi took her hand, careful of her hoodie sleeve. Warmth filled her palm on contact, and her heart fluttered when Zoey’s thumb gently rubbed the knuckle of her pointer finger, consciously, or unconsciously, Rumi didn’t know, but she knew she’d be thinking about that moment the rest of the day.
Her mouth opened, ready to speak with a voice that didn’t work—
“Rumi! I got them!” Bobby burst through the door, disrupting the small, almost intimate moment that cloaked the two women. Both women startled at the sudden intrusion, their hands falling to the countertop with a smack.
Rumi could only describe Bobby’s movements as prancing as he rounded the shop counter, an elegant box clasped in his hands. He placed the box down and opened it with a flourish, revealing twelve perfect, multicoloured, dasik, neatly arranged. His eyes sparkled with excitement, “Don’t they look amazing?” He gushed, leaning over to sniff at the sweet scent rising from the box. He produced a taro boba, holding it in his clasped palms, and bowed his head. “Of course, one taro boba for my superstar, as promised!”
Rumi laughed, a soft exhale, the most sound she could produce and took the boba from Bobby. She glanced at Zoey and froze at the look shining in the younger woman’s eyes. She couldn’t place it; all she knew was that it was a look she seldom received. It made her feel warm and fuzzy.
Bobby finally noticed Zoey and turned his beaming grin to the younger woman. “Hey, would you like a dasik?” He turned the box towards her, oblivious to the moment he interrupted. Or whatever that was mere moments ago.
Rumi’s head throbbed; the last few minutes and her entire interaction with Zoey pounded behind her eyes. She doesn’t know what to make of it.
She needed to sit down.
“Hell yeah, man!” Zoey reached forward, then paused. “Oh, wait, Mira is getting some for us, actually. She’d be so pissed if I had one without her.”
Right, the girlfriend. An icicle formed in Rumi’s chest at the mention of her. She takes a small step back, her hands clasped tightly around her boba. Bobby glanced at her, and, clocking the look on her features, switched gears into boss mode.
“Rumi, why don’t you finish up out back? I can help the young woman here finish up.” He picked up one of the dasik, a baby pink one with a lotus flower imprinted on it. “Eat this, drink that, finish the guitar and then go for lunch. You gotta eat, superstar.” He levelled her with a playful glare, knowing that Rumi could waste the day away working on the vinyls and guitars in the back and forget to eat.
Rumi smiled weakly and with her free hand, signed, “Thanks, Bobby.”
Bobby shook his head and waved her away. “Go on, get, kid.”
Zoey called out to her, her words thawing the icicle in Rumi’s chest. “Bye, Rumi.”
Her name sounded like a symphony coming from Zoey’s mouth, and the warmth was back, running up her spine and leaving a trail of tingles in its wake. Rumi waved back and returned to her workstation. She placed the boba and dasik down and slumped into her chair.
In those last ten minutes, Rumi managed to forget about her morning melancholy. For one moment, she was at ease and comfortable.
She hoped to feel it again.