LATE NIGHT TALKING (READERXJENNIE)

1: BEFORE.

The night is cold and faithless.

There were no stars littered in the sky, this particular Tuesday, only desk workers dressed in black and white suits, college students that littered the streets of Seoul, along with the sea of endless blue and violet neon lights, beaming off of arcades and karaoke bars.

The cold air leaves a ghastly touch that propels Jennie Kim to tug her coat tighter on her small frame. With unfocused eyes, she drags herself towards what's become her nightly routine for the past two weeks.

Past the bars, the arcades, and the endless array of drunken folks, she slips in a barely there alley.

Inside, fire escape ladders riddled the left wall, and a bunch of graffiti on the other. When she walks, her boots crunch to the sound of broken bottles and left over trash from whoever was unfortunate enough to find solace in such a grim place.

Being an insomniac is a funny thing to be.

Jennie rarely sleeps as it is, but lately, with all the hostility that came barreling in with her controversial relationship with a fellow idol - that  no sooner had it started, ended up in flames - it seems as though sleep had evaded her all together.

She nears the end of the dark alley. Soon, she recognizes the familiar golden aura of the lights that adorned this small coffee shop.

'deurimkaechyeo' blared in neon - the name of the café.

Dream catcher.

The irony isn't lost on Jennie, seeing as she hadn't had any semblance of dreams as of late. Still, she pushes open the frosted glass door.

The inside was... unassuming at best. The walls were a pasty yellow in color. There was a clock on the far right side that constantly ticks at 10, but it was a weathered down and beaten, so Jennie thinks she can get past the constant ticking.

Besides, it was nice to not know how late it is or how long she stayed.

these things, the low lights and the old bar tables were charming in their own, vintage way. Everything felt straight out of an indie film, and the golden lights makes it so that it looks like an old 90's film, bought to life.

Jennie decides, from the second visit, that she likes the place.

She looks around to check the people that littered the small space.

There were drag queens at the far left corner, talking loudly in their colorful outfits, and smoking a cigarette that smells like adolescent mistakes.

The table before them was occupied by a couple in their late teens. They were tense and giggly, the blossoms of an early relationship, she had guessed.

The rest of the occupied seats provided respite for the weary or the too drunk to function laborers, prostitutes, and the broken.

There was no shortage of diversity in this place. One of its charms.

Inevitably, her eyes drifted towards her favorite seat.

The one with the cracked upholstery and the blinking bulb. It was near the window, a bit detached from the collection of tables near the counter.

She finds the seat, takes her tired bones over there, and melts against the furniture.

Amongst the drag queens, the lovers, the weary, and the prostitutes, there was now a sleepless Idol that contributes to the litany of the damned.

The owner - Irene - comes up to her as always, and as always, she orders their house blend coffee along with their french toast with the fruits.

The owner jots it down, asks how she's been with her intended niceties, and Jennie answers with her tempered attitude and a forced effort to be a bit more sympathetic with the tiresome schedule of someone who runs a 24/7 café.