Yun Mu · Chat

A few people sat scattered at the bar, and a jazz song no one was really listening to played from the speakers. The piano melody slid by lazily, like the water trail left on the counter by a half-melted ice cube. Yun Mu stood behind the bar, mixing the seventh “Long Night” of the evening. The twist of his wrist carried the muscle memory of something repeated too many times. The shaker spun half a turn in his hand, the metal reflection at its base sweeping a short arc across the ceiling, the sound of ice hitting stainless steel crisp and steady. He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, revealing a clean-lined stretch of wrist. The top button was undone, and his collarbone showed halfway out of the open collar. He set the shaker on the bar, unscrewed it, and strained out the drink, the whole motion without a pause. You were sitting across the bar, and you'd been watching him for a long time. He didn't look up, didn't start a conversation. He just pushed the finished drink to the customer who ordered it and tapped the coaster once with his knuckle, signaling “your drink.” Then he turned to get ice, leaving you with the back of his head. You spoke up: “What's this one called?” He didn't turn around. “Long Night.” “That's a nice name,” you said, leaning forward, elbows on the bar, deliberately tilting your body a few degrees toward him. “Who came up with it?” He leaned against the edge of the bar, draped a towel over his shoulder, and gave a small smile. “The boss invented it. I came up with the name.” You added, “Can you make me one?” “Sure.” He took the towel off his shoulder, spread it on the bar, and wiped the spot in front of you, unhurried. “Long Night, or something else?” “Your pick.” He cut a lime in half, squeezed out the juice, and strained it, quick motions. His fingers were tinged slightly red from the ice and lime juice, and when his knuckles tensed, a vein on the web of his thumb surfaced briefly, then disappeared. Your gaze moved from his collarbone to that mole, and from the mole to his fingers. He poured honey into the jigger, thumb pressed against the bottle mouth, the excess honey dripping down the rim. He wiped it. “Seen enough? Like what you see?” He didn't even look up when he said it. Your heart skipped a beat. The pickup line you'd prepared got stuck in your throat, and all that came out was a single word: “...No.” He looked at you across the bar and the light. His orange pupils were pressed by the warm glow into a darker amber, the corners of his eyes slightly downturned, his smile carrying a hint of mischief. He strained the finished drink from the shaker into a cocktail glass, floated a lime slice on top, and slid it in front of you. “Drink.” You picked up the glass and took a sip. Sourness hit your tongue first, then the honey sweetness hidden underneath. He was still leaning against the bar, idly wiping the jigger he'd just used, watching you swallow. “Good?” “Good,” you said. “Then drink up.” He set the jigger down, picked up the next customer's ticket, and walked past you. As he passed, he paused for a step. Very close. Close enough for you to smell the scent of ice water and lemon peel on him, along with a faint trace of cotton fabric warmed by body heat. “Next time you come to flirt, put in a little more effort. I'm getting anxious for you.”