He gives me a look like he’s thinking the same thing.
“Let’s get some dessert,” he says, and presses a button on the wall for service. The same waitress from the restaurant appears to take our order. She doesn’t bother to look at me. Daniel orders us patbingsoo, which turns out to be shaved ice with fruit, small, soft rice cakes, and sweet red beans.
“Like it?” he asks. It’s important to him that I do.
I finish it in six spoonfuls. What’s not to like? It’s sweet and cold and delicious.
He beams at me and I beam back.
Observable Fact: I like making him happy.
Observable Fact: I don’t know when that happened.
He grabs the song menu from the table and flips to the English section. While he agonizes over song choice, I watch the K-pop videos playing on the television. They’re candy-colored and infectious.
“Just choose a song,” I tell him when the third video starts.
“This is norebang,” he says. “You don’t just choose a song. A song chooses you.”
“Tell me you’re kidding,” I say.
He winks at me and begins loosening his tie. “Yes, I’m kidding, but pipe down. I’m trying to find something to properly impress you with my vocal stylings.”
He unbuttons the top button of his shirt. I watch his hands as he pulls the tie off over his head. It’s not like he’s taking his clothes off. It’s not like he’s getting undressed right here in front of me. But it feels like he is. I can’t see anything scandalous, just a quick glimpse of the skin at his throat. He pulls the rubber band from his hair and tosses it to the table. His hair is just long enough to fall into his face, and he brushes it behind his ears absentmindedly. I can’t help staring. It feels like I’ve been waiting for him to do this all day.
Observable fact: He is pretty hot with his hair down.
Observable fact: He’s pretty hot with his hair up too.
I pull my eyes away and stare at the air conditioner on the wall instead. I’m considering adjusting the temperature down.
He rolls up his sleeves, which makes me laugh. He’s acting like we’re about to engage in serious physical labor. I’m trying not to notice the long, smooth lines of his forearms, but my eyes keep traveling over them.
“Are you a good singer?” I ask.
He looks at me with mock solemnity, but his dancing eyes give him away.
“Not gonna lie,” he says. “I am good. Italian-opera-singer good.” He grabs the remote to key in his song choice. “Are you?” he asks.
I don’t answer. He’ll find out soon enough. In fact, my singing will definitely cure him of the crush he has on me.
Observable Fact: I am the worst singer on earth.
He stands up and walks to the open area in front of the television. Apparently, he’s going to need space to maneuver. He adjusts his stance until his feet are planted wide, bows his head so that his hair obscures his face, and holds the microphone up in the air in one hand—classic rock star pose. It’s “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA. He puts a hand over his heart and croons the first verse. À la the song title, it’s all about taking chances, specifically me taking a chance on him.
By the second verse, he’s warmed up and throwing me cheesy pop star looks with eyebrow raises, penetrating stares, and pouty lips. According to the lyrics, we can do so many fun things as long as we’re together. The fun things include dancing, walking, talking, and listening to music. Strangely, there’s no mention of kissing. He pantomimes each activity like some sort of deranged mime, and I can’t stop laughing.
Verse three has him down on his knees in front of me. There’s something in the lyrics about feeling all alone when pretty birds have flown that I don’t quite understand. Am I the bird? Is he? Why are there birds?
For the rest of the song he’s back up on his feet, gripping the microphone with both hands and singing with abandon. My hysterical laughter doesn’t faze him. Also, he wasn’t kidding about being a good singer. He’s excellent. He even does his own backing vocals, which consists of him singing “take a chance” over and over again.
And it’s not like he’s trying to be sexy. It’s just funny. So funny that it becomes sexy. I didn’t know funny could do that. I notice the way his dress shirt stretches across his chest as he does his disco moves. I notice how long his fingers are when he runs his hands through his hair dramatically. I notice how nice and firm his butt looks in his suit pants.
Observable Fact: I have a thing for butts.
Given my crappy day, none of this should be working on me. But it definitely is. It’s his complete lack of self-consciousness. He doesn’t care if he’s making a fool of himself. His only goal is to make me laugh.
It’s a long song, and he’s hot and sweaty by the end of it. After he’s done, he watches the monitor until a candy-pink cartoon microphone dances across the screen and holds up a sign: 99%. The screen fills with confetti.
I groan. “You didn’t say there would be grades.”
He throws me a triumphant grin and collapses on the seat right next to me. Our forearms brush and separate and brush again. I feel ridiculous for noticing it, but I do notice it.
He moves away to retrieve the microphone and hand it to me.
“Bring it,” he says.
I WISH I’D THOUGHT ABOUT doing norebang earlier. Being alone with her in a dimly lit room is a little bit of heaven (disco heaven). She’s flipping through the song book and making noises about being a terrible singer. I’m staring at her, getting my fix in, because she’s too distracted to tell me to quit doing it.