Dance Dance Dance
Dance dance dance
g // You&Minho // ~800w
i wrote this a few weeks back when something similar happened to me
and i just thought that i would share it with all of you. :)
You and Minho aren’t really friends. Not really. Friends usually talk, exchange numbers, develop friendly banters; Minho and you and have none of that. All you have with him is Fridays when you do your laundry and he’s working his graveyard shift, all you have is the music of clothes rolling around in washing machines and the scent of fresh laundry brewing.
You notice him when you first walk in to the Laundromat because his hair is all brown and kind of wavy, long enough to tie in a ponytail but too short to make him look feminine. His features weren’t feminine at all, you remember thinking when you first laid eyes on the olive skinned clerk, his eyes wide, lips thin, cheek bones high as they help hold up the thick rimmed glasses he dons every shift. He always purses his lips the same way whenever a customer would complain about one of the machines eating up their change and tries to fix it by pounding on the lid.
You stare sometimes, because in his own right, he was beautiful. And one night you stare long enough to finally read the name printed on his ID. It’s really quick though because he was moving clothes and stuff from one basket to the other, but you catch a glimpse of it anyway. Now he was more than a face.
When everything is running smoothly you see him prop both of his long legs over the counter top, his back leaning against the chair. He pulls out a Haruki Murakami book from under the table and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“It’s not very good.” You blurt out without really thinking your words through beforehand and you freeze, your coin clipped between your thumb and forefinger. You hear him shift in his seat because it’s just the two of you this Friday and it’s only the silent humming of the machines filling in the spaces.
“Sorry?” You always knew Minho’s voice was deep, but it never came to your mind that it would be that deep. It hits your nerves in all the right ways.
“Uhmm.” You shakily state, eyes skidding over to his counter, three washing machines away. “The book. I. I read it. A week ago.”
The boy’s eyes round up like the coin in your fingers and he gives the book in his hands a glance. “You wouldn’t recommend it?”
A conversation. Finally. Something to work with while doing one of the most dreadful chores. “I’ve read better from him. This one’s-“ you point at the book with the coin still in your hand. “-it’s a bit too technical for my taste. Some parts drag on more than it should. Some parts were a bit awkward…” You trail off as you finally slip the coin in the washing machine slot.
When you spare him another glance he’s smiling down at the book and tapping it lightly on his one hand.
“I’ve read this more than once.” Minho sets the book on the counter and looks up at you with his smile still neat. He leans over the table, hands flat on the surface and you thank God he’s wearing a v-neck tonight because you don’t miss out on the line of his clavicles jutting slightly from beneath his neck.
You mentally give yourself a headshake to wake yourself up from your daze. “What? Why?”
“Coz it’s my favorite.” He answers flatly; smile unmoving and you’re disarmed from both his answer and his subtle grin.
“Oh. Of Murakami’s?” You ask with genuine confusion in your voice.
He shakes his head, fringe flying a bit. “No. Ever.”
“I. I-Oh.” You deadpan for lack of any better response or time to think of one.
You stare at him and he stares back with less alarm in his features. You keep staring even as he looks away, taking a pen from the same place where he plucked the book out from underneath the counter. He flips to the last page and writes something on it. Your stare doesn’t faze one bit.
Suddenly he tosses the book your way and you knock over your tray of coins by accident just so you can catch the book you hate with both hands.
“Give it another read. And if you change your mind you should give me a call.”
Minho disappears behind the parted beads hanging from the doorway leading to the backroom and you’re left alone in the shop, laundry, humming and all.
You turn the book over and spread open the last part. There you find the words Choi Minho 8371109 staring up at you.
You have his full name now. You have his number. You had a conversation where you embarrassed yourself, but was decent for the most part. And you’re pretty sure that you won’t change your mind about the Murakami book even after reading it. You can see yourself coming in here more than once a week though even if you still aren’t friends with Choi Minho. Not really.
MasterFicList
g // You&Minho // ~800w
i wrote this a few weeks back when something similar happened to me
and i just thought that i would share it with all of you. :)
You and Minho aren’t really friends. Not really. Friends usually talk, exchange numbers, develop friendly banters; Minho and you and have none of that. All you have with him is Fridays when you do your laundry and he’s working his graveyard shift, all you have is the music of clothes rolling around in washing machines and the scent of fresh laundry brewing.
You notice him when you first walk in to the Laundromat because his hair is all brown and kind of wavy, long enough to tie in a ponytail but too short to make him look feminine. His features weren’t feminine at all, you remember thinking when you first laid eyes on the olive skinned clerk, his eyes wide, lips thin, cheek bones high as they help hold up the thick rimmed glasses he dons every shift. He always purses his lips the same way whenever a customer would complain about one of the machines eating up their change and tries to fix it by pounding on the lid.
You stare sometimes, because in his own right, he was beautiful. And one night you stare long enough to finally read the name printed on his ID. It’s really quick though because he was moving clothes and stuff from one basket to the other, but you catch a glimpse of it anyway. Now he was more than a face.
When everything is running smoothly you see him prop both of his long legs over the counter top, his back leaning against the chair. He pulls out a Haruki Murakami book from under the table and pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.
“It’s not very good.” You blurt out without really thinking your words through beforehand and you freeze, your coin clipped between your thumb and forefinger. You hear him shift in his seat because it’s just the two of you this Friday and it’s only the silent humming of the machines filling in the spaces.
“Sorry?” You always knew Minho’s voice was deep, but it never came to your mind that it would be that deep. It hits your nerves in all the right ways.
“Uhmm.” You shakily state, eyes skidding over to his counter, three washing machines away. “The book. I. I read it. A week ago.”
The boy’s eyes round up like the coin in your fingers and he gives the book in his hands a glance. “You wouldn’t recommend it?”
A conversation. Finally. Something to work with while doing one of the most dreadful chores. “I’ve read better from him. This one’s-“ you point at the book with the coin still in your hand. “-it’s a bit too technical for my taste. Some parts drag on more than it should. Some parts were a bit awkward…” You trail off as you finally slip the coin in the washing machine slot.
When you spare him another glance he’s smiling down at the book and tapping it lightly on his one hand.
“I’ve read this more than once.” Minho sets the book on the counter and looks up at you with his smile still neat. He leans over the table, hands flat on the surface and you thank God he’s wearing a v-neck tonight because you don’t miss out on the line of his clavicles jutting slightly from beneath his neck.
You mentally give yourself a headshake to wake yourself up from your daze. “What? Why?”
“Coz it’s my favorite.” He answers flatly; smile unmoving and you’re disarmed from both his answer and his subtle grin.
“Oh. Of Murakami’s?” You ask with genuine confusion in your voice.
He shakes his head, fringe flying a bit. “No. Ever.”
“I. I-Oh.” You deadpan for lack of any better response or time to think of one.
You stare at him and he stares back with less alarm in his features. You keep staring even as he looks away, taking a pen from the same place where he plucked the book out from underneath the counter. He flips to the last page and writes something on it. Your stare doesn’t faze one bit.
Suddenly he tosses the book your way and you knock over your tray of coins by accident just so you can catch the book you hate with both hands.
“Give it another read. And if you change your mind you should give me a call.”
Minho disappears behind the parted beads hanging from the doorway leading to the backroom and you’re left alone in the shop, laundry, humming and all.
You turn the book over and spread open the last part. There you find the words Choi Minho 8371109 staring up at you.
You have his full name now. You have his number. You had a conversation where you embarrassed yourself, but was decent for the most part. And you’re pretty sure that you won’t change your mind about the Murakami book even after reading it. You can see yourself coming in here more than once a week though even if you still aren’t friends with Choi Minho. Not really.
MasterFicList