Asunder

Chapter 17 - Dancer

The rest of the morning passes by in a blur of laughter and blissful confusion. The time spent in the Kals' kitchen is time dense with simultaneous peace and chaos.

Hana stays true to her word, and serves me a meal for the ages when lunchtime rolls around. She says she won't let me leave until I can roll out of the door like a ball, or like James. He isn't even mildly offended, much to my surprise: the joke makes me hold my breath and brace myself for an explosive reaction from his chair. But there is none. The father only chokes on his food, and laughs so hard his belly rumbles.

Hana stays true to that last statement, too. Whenever I clear my plate, and look away for a measly second, a hand flashes underneath my vision. And every single time I look back down at my plate, more food has been scooped there. When I whip my head to where the hand came from, I see either Hana or Sky, the former whistling innocently, the latter staring at me dead in the eyes, guilty as sin. He twirls his thumbs around on his knee and raises his eyebrow, daring me to say anything. I never do, and so I keep eating until, once again, there is nothing left of the meal.

And though James said earlier that Hana has something to prove, she doesn't push me to say whether or not her meal was better than James'. She doesn't create a competition or generate tension. Instead, when the plates are finally cleared, she goes around the table to collect them, and kisses her husband on the cheek. It's so sweet that I can't help but stare at them until Sky's knee nudges mine gently under the table. When I turn to him, he looks at me with a smile, as if to agree with me on the loveliness of his parents.

But as all good times do, it goes by in a flash. Soon, the afternoon perches over the horizon, and I begin to feel all too conscious of the mint-coloured house next door, pressing for my return.

So we lie on the grass of the garden again, talking for the hours I have left.

Somehow we don't run out of conversation, despite how little we know each other. At the end of each sentence, a new one strings along like magic, bringing in new topics and new laughter. New knowledge. There is a tangible desire we share of knowing more about each other. But that strange instinct that brought me to meet him tells me not to push, to let things unfold. And so they do, and I'm a fortunate witness of the unfolding.

I shut my eyes, letting the afternoon heat creep up my bare legs and arms, breathing freely in the open air. "What do you think about the 70s and 80s?"

An hour ago, the subject matter of our conversation shifted over into artistic territory. We chatted for awhile about our amateur-painter pasts, how we'd think there was an actual future in it for us in it when we were children. As we grew older though, we dropped our pencils and paintbrushes to focus on other things. And among our other passions emerged music.

I feel his hand lift up my head so he can slide an arm under my neck, serving me as a pillow. It warms me even more. "You know, I never really knew anything 70s and 80s..." he muses, and I whirl my head towards him in horror.

"Are you serious?" I ask dryly.

He nods, faint amusement glinting in his eyes. I, however, not finding it amusing at all, give him the death stare of the century.
"Sorry." He gives his lip a bite, and I have to look away, back up at the sky.
"That's... unacceptable."
"I'm sorry!" he pokes my cheek to get me to look him again. I give in, grinning back at him. His voice goes back down to a low and melodious sound: "I... I only ever dance to hip-hop and pop variants."

Did he say...

His smile widens at the same time my eyes do. "You dance?"
He nods again, and I sit up, breaking the intimacy of the silence with my overflowing excitement. "You're a dancer?"
"To the core," he flourishes his hand in a small bow, letting out a grunt as he sits up with a forearm braced on his knee.