Sillage | DISCONTINUED

chapter one

2AM RAMEN WITH A SIDE OF LUST.

When the term soulmate comes to mind, it is often associated with the general ideas of romance, of fairytales and happily ever afters. It is blended with a scene of two inevitable lovers seeing each other for the first time across the room, maybe at a library basked in the warmth of a fireplace, or a cafe with an atmosphere tainted by the strong aroma of grounded coffee beans. They lock eyes, one smiles and raises an eyebrow in a silenthello, interacting without voice, just the smallest of gestures and expressions. Then, one lifts their hand, not in a wave, but rather to lay it softly on their own forearm where they ever so gently squeeze the muscle – and suddenly, across the expanse of distance that separates them, they are connected by the sensation of the touch blossoming over the same area of muscle on the other being, who remains with their hands unmoving in their lap, as if it were of their own doing.

All at once, their two separate worlds come together, the sun and moon align, the flowers over in the cracked vase bloom, once wilted petals flourishing, and the birds dancing across the windowsill start to sing in melodious harmony. They are connected, the two strangers, in pain and pleasure, they are one – experiencing the sillage, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone, but through the physical sensations that grace their body. Soulmates.

So when she meets him, bloodstream laced with the intoxication that only vodka can provide, ordering the largest bowl of miso at two in the morning from Sumo, the local ramen shop that is a hotspot for clubbers after a heavy night of consuming too much liquor – the last word that comes to mind when she stares into his glazed over, drunken eyes is soulmate.

♔

Jeongguk notices her the moment the door chimes, signalling the arrival of a new customer. How could he not, when they are the only two people at the noodle shop at two in the morning?

She wears a black coat that skims at the middle of her stocking clad thighs, elegant and lithe as they saunter her body with the fluidity of a wave towards the counter. She leans across it, bending and curving and calling out in a voice that is slurred, loud, nonetheless beautiful and the chef comes out with wide arms and an exclamation of her name that Jeongguk cannot hear through his cotton stuffed ears, still catching on to the end of her simple words of darling, where are you? The chef is an older man, his half moon eyes curved into crescents of greying eyelashes, his smile especially warm for her, kissing each other on the cheek like old friends and he says word of the usual to which she claps with delight, and although her expression is obscured by her fluffed hair, curled with the humidity that only the sweaty, confined space of a nightclub can provide, he can tell that she is smiling when she responds with of course, you know me too well.

The girl visibly, audibly inhales once the chef retreats to the kitchen, deeply as though she is trying to catch onto the aroma of fresh soy that wafts over from none other than his bowl, and then she whirls on her heel. Found you.

The velvet dress she wears fits like a glove, slipping in crushed emerald over her curves, accentuating hips and breasts. Her eyes are smudged with ashy black, lips rosy and smeared from either kissing or drinking, Jeongguk cannot tell, but he simply cannot look away. Especially when she is smiling so lovely like that, directly at him.

"The shoyu bowl is one of the best, isn't it?"

For a split moment, his eyes drop to the half eaten bowl of ramen positioned before him, and by the time he has averted his gaze back up to her, the calm ocean of her being is rolling onto his shores, perching on the vacant seat across the table. Her mouth, up close, shines with intoxication, secrets, and he has never wished to kiss a complete stranger so badly before and shit, he should probably answer her question.