April Loves Black Coffee: First Impressions (2 page)

“What do you drink then?” Brown Eyes presses further, giving me the impression that he is trying to help salvage my embarrassment of being so inexperienced.

“Coffee.” I find myself whispering. “It keeps me awake for the long shifts.”

“Coffee,” Brown Eyes echoes after me. For the life of me, I cannot imagine why he cares to carry on this awkward conversation. Swiftly, Brown Eyes nods his head before he changes the subject back to the wine order. “We’ll have the Merlot then.” A look crosses his face. Maybe he is wondering why I am rambling on. His eyes glow for some reason, leading me to speculation.

I nod my head at Brown Eyes’ concise wine order and push for the appetizer and entrées next. “Would you . . . and everyone else . . . like to order right now?”

The other men around the table are staring inquisitively at me.
Did I speak a foreign language?
I look back at them with the same awkwardness. Brown Eyes mumbles incoherently in a foreign tongue that I catch as American English. As though they finally have permission to speak, the men at the table fire off. They make it a point to flip through the menus and gesture toward the entrées.

I keep my composure as I write down their orders. At our monthly staff meetings, Son often holds a waiting contest. I have always placed second to Son when it comes to memorizing and taking down customers’ orders. Today, however, I am having some problems for a number of
reasons. The most significant and distracting reason is Brown Eyes. He seems to survive without the need to blink. Even when he is telling me his order of the steak, Brown Eyes keeps his gaze steady and unrelenting on me.

“That will be all,” Brown Eyes says after the last member of his group orders. His voice is controlled, but it carries with it a beat of breathlessness.

Why is he so good-looking even when he wants to shoo me away?
“Thank you. I will put your orders in and be back with your Merlot.” I close my black order book and proceed to collect the menus.

Brown Eyes leans back in his chair languidly. He drapes a casual arm against the back of his chair and watches me intently. He doesn’t say a word and neither do the other men at the table.

The last menu slips out of my fingers onto the table, and the man to my left helps me. He leans forward and his eyes are soft, almost apologetic. If I can read his mind, he is probably telling me he’s sorry that his handsome Boss makes me so clumsy. Maybe Brown Eyes mesmerizes waitresses all the time. The other men around the table are catching on and they are forming identical, amused expressions.

“Thank you,” I mumble to Brown Eyes’ helpful man. I quickly tuck the menus under my arm and walk away from the table. My heart races and I realize my palms are sweaty.
Don’t trip. Don’t trip.
When I find balance on the main restaurant floor again, my thoughts continue to dance.

Aish! What is going on?
Why did I turn into some kind of silly putty just because an overwhelmingly attractive and enticing customer gazes at me like that? I am usually immune to that kind of attention. A voice on the right side of my shoulder whispers, “Because he’s not like the rest. That God-given creature is staring at you!” The other voice, on the left side of my shoulder, hisses, “Just because he asked you what you like to drink doesn’t mean he wants to marry you. Get it together May.”

I shake my head to chase away the train of thoughts. An electric current is rushing through my veins, waking me up from a long and deep slumber. Suddenly, the night does not seem too long and tedious. I feel as if I can wait tables and serve customers until sunrise.

I try to suppress the giddy schoolgirl inside of me, dying to free herself and somersault all the way back to table twelve. I head through the throng of tables to the kitchen. The chef and his assistants are bustling around the large oval kitchen. As usual, the kitchen staff is attempting to complete the restaurant’s orders in an assembly line manner. I place table twelve’s order on top of the waiting counter.

“Excuse me,” I mutter to a kitchen staff when I am inches away from colliding into him. He is carrying ten dirty dishes in his arms; he nods his head in acknowledgement and continues his gait to the other side of the kitchen.

I head to the small cellar in the back of the kitchen where we keep the wine. The Trax stocks its wine in large, ornate cabinets that line the entire wall. All the wine, including exclusive alcohol bottles, is ordered by date. Since the Merlot is one of our most popular choices, I have no trouble finding its signature dark bottle. I extract the bottle of Merlot from the cabinet and walk to the right side of the closet to pull out five wine glasses.

“How’d it go?” Joolie enters the kitchen with an armful of dirty dishes. Her cheeks flush with color to match the stars in her eyes. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Joolie doesn’t need to elaborate on who it is at table twelve.

“Not really.” I squeeze by Joolie, hoping she doesn’t see the lie on my face. “He’s . . . too pretty.”

“Pretty? He’s drop-dead gorgeous May!” Joolie gives me a desperate and devious smile. “I’ve never seen him here before. He must be in town for business or something. They’re all wearing suits and ties at that table.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. Before I can stop myself, my mouth runs away from me. “I think I’ve seen him before.” I feel my intuition grimacing at my confession. It is too soon for such a conclusion, but I can’t help the nagging feeling brewing at the pit of my stomach.

“You know what,” Joolie interjects as her eyes gloss over, “you’re right. Me too! He looks like that actor, Song Seung Hun! I watch his dramas all the time.”

No. Not that kind of familiar.
A wave of disappointment comes over me. I let out at laugh at Joolie’s interpretation of my comment. “I have to go. I owe table twelve their drinks.”

“You know we’ve never seen anyone like that before!” Joolie laughs as I exit the kitchen.

I shake my head at Joolie’s joke. I continue back to the bustling restaurant. When I near her table, Number Nine waves at me. Her Martini glass is empty and she is undoubtedly requesting a refill. I give her a quick acknowledgement smile.

“The shipment should be arriving in about two hours.” The man sitting to the left of Brown Eyes, the one who helped me when I dropped one of the menus earlier, is reporting in a voice that is slightly above an octave of a shrill.

“And all the heads are accounted for?” Brown Eyes questions in that same signature calm and controlled tone.

“Yes,” Menu Helper answers. “Boss,” he adds anxiously.

The rise and fall of their syllables signal a secret and important conversation. Almost immediately, I feel as though I am brushing against a restless monster living in a foreign world. I know things like danger and violence existing in the world, but to interact and be in the presence of its citizens is new territory for me. A chill comes over me when I catch Brown Eyes’ title.

“Here are your drinks.”
He’s making me feel like I am interrupting something important.
The thought crosses my mind when I set the bottle of Merlot on the table. I keep my eyes low as the heat in my cheek rises yet again. I hope he doesn’t think I am eavesdropping on his conversation.

“Thank you.” Brown Eyes disquiet voice permeates the air.

“No problem,” I mumble as I keep my hands steady. I place the wine glasses at the center of the table. From the depths of my waitress apron, I produce a wine opener. With precision, I wrap it around the tip of the Merlot and twist. I am well aware that I have the undivided attention of all five clients as I open the bottle. I remind myself to breathe when I fill their glasses. After I am done, I gesture with open palms at their glasses of wine.

Whew!
I look calm and professional. Inside, I am one impulse away from bolting off the platform table twelve is elevated on.

In unison, the men thank me and I leave. Just as I turn, I make the amateur mistake of glancing at Brown Eyes again. He has his eyes on me, intense and just as provocative as moments ago. I cannot understand his curiosity in me, but I can understand my curiosity for him.

I have seen him before
, I tell myself. I just cannot remember from where or when. A face like his is truly unforgettable, but I cannot pinpoint any relevancy. It crosses my mind that maybe he is thinking the same. He remembers me from somewhere too, but cannot pinpoint it either. However, Brown Eyes doesn’t strike me as the kind who would struggle with his memory. I do my best to back away from table twelve without tripping on my own two feet.

“Maybelline! Table two!” Son shouts my name from across the room again. He is pointing frantically at the new group of people pouring in.

I breathe a sigh of relief. For once, I am glad that Son always has an endless list of responsibilities for me. I turn toward the direction of table two and allow the increasing foot traffic at The Trax to distract me. I take table two’s orders and spend more than five minutes helping the clients understand the differences between our popular sauces.

From my peripheral view as the night progresses, I am well aware that Brown Eyes scans the room for me occasionally. Despite the seemingly serious topics at his table, Brown Eyes’ gaze catches moments of me throughout the restaurant. His gazes are always brief, but the effect they have on me is long
lasting. The dance of I-see-you-looking-at-me goes on even after their entrées.

By the time I deliver the check to table twelve, Brown Eyes picks up the black book with great ease and asks me, “When is your break time?”

Once again, his question takes me back. My next break time is not until another hour, but the latter part of me, the part that believes in happily-ever-after blurts out, “Five more minutes” instead.
What is he going to do now that he knows?

Brown Eyes hands me back the checkbook with his credit card neatly placed inside. I am nearly transported to a different world when his lips break into a striking smile. He states simply, “I hope you enjoy your break. You’ve been working very hard,” and I try to stop myself from melting into the floor. I keep the smile on my face and take the checkbook from him.

I keep my composure as I walk to the cashier’s counter to charge his card. 

Did you think someone as handsome, mysterious, intelligent, and beguiling as that man is going to ask you on a brief date on your break?
My thoughts scold me. I want to laugh, but the humor buries between embarrassment and desire.

When I return with the checkbook, I drop it off quickly and head over to the next table. I spend no more than a minute chatting with the customers when I notice the activity at table twelve. One-by-one, the men at table twelve leave. They must think I am the waitress utterly smitten with their Boss. Menu Helper nods his head in my direction when he notices I am looking their way. Brown Eyes is on the phone now, his eyebrows coming together to form an expression that should never come across his striking features. He heads the line out of the restaurant. Brown Eyes’ stride is confident, inexorable, and ambitious. Brown Eyes doesn’t look back at me when he exits the doors with his men in tow.

“It’s almost nine!” Son’s voice cuts across my silent observation.

I snap out of my daze and pick up a dirty plate from the neighboring table. I make my way back to table twelve to pick up the payment. The black checkbook is shut, but I can visibly see the final receipt sticking
from the top. Absentmindedly, I pick up the checkbook. The thin, glossy paper flutters out of the checkbook. I almost let out a gasp when I see the final amount. The Trax, with all its commotion, disappears in the background.

$280 dollars.
$100 tip for May–for her superior customer service.
His writing is elegant, concise, and defined.

CHAPTER ONE

M
y
birth name is Maybelline Lee.

I am not entirely sure if the makeup brand Maybelline was already established when I was born, but my parents decided to add a Western touch to my Korean name Mayi Lee. My father was convinced that his children were destined to relocate to the United States one day. Bless his heart; my father was every bit of a romantic. However, despite the good measure that Maybelline symbolizes all things feminine embedded between the sleek pages of any given magazine, the name was lost in meaning when it rolled down the tongues of evil schoolboys who teased me for its difficult pronunciation. So, I shortened my name to the plain and simple month of May. May reminds me of springtime with colorful flowers and rays of sunshine; Maybelline reminds me of cosmetics on old women’s faces trying to be younger, and young girls trying to be older.

In many ways, I am a simple girl in the simple world I work hard to maintain. Contrary to others around my age, I enjoy reading a good book as opposed to going out on a Friday night. My literacy heroines and heroes live in the dark literatures of Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen King, and Anne Rice to name a few. I go jogging, at least once a week, with my cousin because she is a health freak and insists I put my body through the torture. I possess no special talent except for my hospitality and workaholic determination. I am particularly partial to these characteristics.

I currently attend Seoul University as a junior in the noted department of psychology. I am optimistic about studying the malleable human psyche and all of its imperfections–a saying I once read in a prominent psychology book. It sounds great in theory to observe and analyze people, but when it comes to applicability, I am still not brave enough to apply for an internship. In the grand scheme of things, college is the great milestone I wish to conquer. This explains why I am juggling two jobs to save money for college in the fall. With every passing semester, it is increasingly difficult to come up with enough funds for books and tuition.

On top of being a workaholic this summer, I make it a point to remind myself, “This is it, my twenty-first year. It’s my time to be an adult.”

The first step to being an adult is to stress myself out and divide not only my time, but also body, across my ventures. In order to eliminate idle time and increase the numbers associated with my bank account, I have my schedule filled for seven days a week from morning to night. In the daytime, I work at the local convenience store,
Sansachun
, as a registrar and product maintenance specialist–which is a fancy title for checking off inventory, stocking products on shelves, and keeping the store organized. At night, I work as a waitress at The Trax. The Trax is my last resort for a second income. Although the venue is a lively and somewhat reputable place to work for, The Trax calls the most dangerous part of town home. It is a spinning top because members from different social scales mingle there. Dating, including other unmentionable vices, parades The Trax like a breeding ground.

Mall jobs are hard to come by during the summer season, and I am too young and inexperienced to work at the real clubs. The Trax offers quite an attractive incentive with its pay. Occasionally, I make a substantial amount of tips that would rival any waitress at any high-end restaurant.

Nevertheless, no one has ever tipped me a hundred dollars. Brown Eyes left quite the impression on me.

I end up keeping a copy of the tip receipt inside Nicolas Spark’s
The Notebook
, not because Brown Eyes’ nice handwriting is on it, but because it is a testament that I actually have a hundred dollar tip to my name. I am not sure if I am fascinated with the flattery, that someone thinks my customer service skills is worth that much, or if it is simply the notion that someone like Brown Eyes thinks I am special enough. I simply reduce it down to the simple fact that such a man fascinates me. 

That Saturday night served as a reminder that even the mundane and recycled routines at The Trax can be open-ended. Days after, my usual pattern of work, sleep, and repeat continues. I let go of the glimmer of hope that Brown Eyes will be coming back anytime soon to have another business dinner. Someone of his caliber and importance probably dines at a gazillion restaurants and bars that easily outrank The Trax.

It is next to impossible that someone can consume my thoughts only after meeting him just once. No one man, or person for that matter, has ever made such an impression on me. This could possibly stem from the fact that I am not a social person, and I have not met enough people to refine my social skills, but I am sure that someone like Brown Eyes can rattle even the most experienced social butterflies. On top of that, there exists another unnerving fact that I coyly try to dance around. It is the fact that Brown Eyes strikes me as something familiar to a faded memory. I have met him before, but I cannot track the time or place. The notion that I met him a long time ago makes for a discomforting thought now.

The only time I am distracted from thinking about Brown Eyes is when I am working. I chalk it up to late adolescent fascination about a man I know nothing of, including the dark and captivating world he comes from. Even in my dreams for days to come, Brown Eyes haunts me in a bittersweet way.

I
T IS SATURDAY EVENING,
SEVEN
days
since Brown Eyes’ appearance in my life. I approach the bus that takes me from Sansachun to The Trax in a bleak mood. My annoyance with Mr. Chun clouds my thoughts about Brown Eyes. Lina and I work at Sansachun with a usual routine that ranges from attending to the few customers who happen to pass by the store to gossiping until Mr. Chun, the owner, starts to wave his favorite broomstick and threaten to fire us if we don’t act more productively. Today, Mr. Chun’s mean streak outweighed his threats. On his endless list of things to do, Mr. Chun had Lina and me scrubbing every inch of the store from the windows to the cracks underneath the cement. It is not the job requirements that bother me; it is Mr. Chun’s crass approach. The negative mood about the minimum wage job rains endlessly on my mood.

By the time the bus finally arrives at The Trax, I am completely drenched in
fatigue and short on nerves. My body is aching for some kind of comfortable release, and the thought of having to stand on my feet for the next eight hours makes my insides coil. I yearn for my warm bed and hot cup of coffee. My hectic morning didn’t free up any time to stop by the local Starbucks.

I send Lina a text message through my cell phone that I will not be having dinner with her tonight. Warmly, my cousin sends me back an unhappy face with an
aja aja fighting
ninja emoticon. She adds an expletive about Mr. Chun. It brightens up my mood, but not for long.

As it often happens with my luck, Son is on a demanding high kick when I arrive at The Trax.

“Good, you’re here. Go over this list.” Son hands me a stack of paperwork before he hurries away to the back room. A truck is waiting for his approval to unload the new inventory.

“Hi to you too,” I mumble at Son’s back. I frown and look down at
the documents in my hand. This will take me all night. While my mind groans, my feet are happy to take a rest.

The Trax has one dated computer for paperwork. It is usually my job to check on reservations and inventory when I start the evening shift. Fortunately, I bury myself in work and Son manages to leave me alone when he sees me typing away like a madwoman. I keep myself busy for the first two hours of my shift checking off the new inventory of food, drinks, and other miscellaneous items.

As the night wears on, I try to stay awake when I finally step out onto the restaurant floor and bar. When nine o’clock rolls around, The Trax precisely converts into its club counterpart. I am now officially on edge from a long night of serving inconsiderate and ruthless customers.

We are so busy I barely have time to touch bases with Joolie and Tailor. The venue is crowded with at least a hundred bodies. It is towards the very end of my shift when I finally make my rounds toward the reserved section of The Trax. I am walking with a couple of empty drinks in my hand, through the throngs of people, mumbling the usual “excuse me” and “watch out, coming through” when I spy the lone figure sitting inside one of the reserved booths.

I stop dead in my tracks.
Oh em gee! It’s him!
After days of constant speculation, the person who has been haunting my thoughts is now back.

He is sitting alone towards the middle of the booth. Half of his face hides in the shadows, but his distinguished handsome features remain recognizable. Even from afar, his distinctive appearance and dress stands out against the camouflage tone. It isn’t very often that The Trax has a lone customer occupying its reserved section. Loneliness and broodingly dark seems to be the MO–modus operandi–of someone like Brown Eyes. 

I feel the same familiar chill ripple down my back when I realize that the loner is staring at me. Instinctively, I turn around to see if his gaze line is inadvertently at someone behind me. When I realize his penetrating stare is solely on me, I blush a deep shade of red. Although it is midnight black inside the club, I feel as though he sees my response with his piercing stares.

Brown Eyes.

My heart is doing something similar to somersaults.
He’s come back! He’s here!
My conscience is singing an entire chorus. It is quite embarrassing to feel this way towards a stranger. I have never felt this type of emotion just by seeing someone that I had only met briefly before.
What is wrong with me? Why do I gravitate towards him?
My intuition frowns, crossing her arms across her chest in a defensive manner. The world stops for a second. All the people disappear, along with the loud tremble of music and flashing lights. For a split second, we lock in a gaze.

“Excuse me! Can I get some service over here?” A screeching sound pierces my ears and effectively slices through the moment.

I am the first one to break eye contact with Brown Eyes.

It feels as though an electric thread collides with my entire body for going against my better instincts. It is as though I am not ready for the moment to escape, to become distinct in such a fervent flash.

A girl, sitting two tables to the left, lets her annoyance show through her hands as she waves me over. I do my best to conceal an attitude when I reluctantly saunter over to her table. “What can I help you with?” After listening to her order, change her order, and order again–five minutes had passed and the moment is gone. When I turn to face Brown Eyes, he has disappeared into the night.

I am busy for the rest of the night, and as though some cosmic force in the universe is against me, I do not cross paths with Brown Eyes. When I try to glance at Brown Eyes, someone is flagging me down for more food and drinks. When I attempt to walk over to his area, someone else is asking me where the bathroom is. Even when I think about making my way back to the reserved section of The Trax, someone is asking me if I can request the resident DJ to play a specific song.

My luck changes when it is closing time. As people clear The Trax at one in the morning, I am free to wander and look at anyone I please without any interruptions. In fact, it is my usual responsibility to gather empty bottles and let the stragglers know the club is closing.

By the time I finally make my way back to the reserved section of The Trax, something similar to a wave of disappointment comes over me. All the booths within the reserved section are currently abandoned and empty. The reality is a mixture of unmet expectations intertwined with anxiousness. I let out a low chuckle beneath my breath. W
hy do I expect Brown Eyes to be here still? But why did he come back? Why was he sitting all by himself? Was he waiting to catch my attention, but decided to leave when he saw how busy I was?

I retreat to the bar, feeling slightly defeated. Tailor is nowhere in sight behind the usual black granite counter. He is probably taking a break. I contemplate heading in the other direction when someone
at the end of the l-shaped bar catches my eye.

A customer is lingering at the edge of the black counter. The left side of his face rests against the counter top while his right index finger circles
the beer he is drinking. It isn’t uncommon for stragglers to cling to the bar near closing time. Some dread to go home while others are too drunk to move. In this straggler’s case, he is a slave to both common reasons.

I approach him just as I would with any customer.

“Excuse me, sir.” I tap lightly on the counter top for his attention. “We’re closing up.”

At the sound of my voice, the straggler lifts his head up.

Brown Eyes.
It’s him! It’s him!

Immediately, his face etches itself into my memory. Just as stunning as a week ago, Brown Eyes’ striking face greets my own. His large round eyes light up with indifference when he makes eye contact with me. His lips press together in a hard, frustrated line. The emotions that haunt him are apparent in every line on his face. Still, Brown Eyes is remarkable in every sense of the word. Flurries of thoughts flip inside me. Again, Brown Eyes brings with him a sense of familiarity that I am sure is more than just a memory.