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The Look of Love
You remember what love looks like at 16
You remember what love looks like at 16.
It’s the summer of your first job and you’re hopelessly in love. It was a thrilling feeling — a feeling accompanied by poetry written on the back of coffee shop napkins and lyrics you copied down painstakingly in a notebook. It was a feeling narrated by love songs. Or maybe summer rain that went pitter patter on the windowsill. It was a rare anticipation for miracles that made you hope for more, even in dire straits.
You remember everything about that night.
In front of you is the most beautiful girl in the world and the two of you are drunk enough to forget what you learned in geography class but sober enough to remember all the lyrics to “Wonderwall”. Her hair smells like coconut oil. Her hands are cold enough to warm them with yours. You’re so close to kissing her, but you don’t.
***
“No need to take your shoes off. Make yourself at home,” Lee Hye-rin beckoned me in. “On second thought — don’t.”
I walked into the kitchen to find a middle-aged lady shuffling her Tarot cards, staring at the plate of pancakes on the kitchen counter wistfully. Judging by the look on her face, I could bet you 10 bucks she was considering slapping the plates off the counter.
“Mom, they’re just pancakes.”
“Who made them?” Hye-rin’s mother squinted at her daughter distastefully.
“Why don’t you learn how to cook Korean food, Hye-rin? Like Hye-min. It’s not like spending your free time washing dishes is going to get you anywhere else in life except the soup kitchen.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hye-rin immerse herself in stirring sugar cubes into her tea while her sister froze, energy bar and satchel still in tow. She let a nervous laugh escape as she glanced up at the grandfather clock by the hallway.
“Oh, dear,” Hye-rin said under her breath, proceeding to tip the whole cup of tea down the sink in a panic. “We should get going. You’re welcome to stay.”
Hye-rin walked past me and my gaping mouth.
“Of course not.” I made a run for the front door before her mother could utter another word.
Are mornings always like that at their house?
“Mornings are always like that at our place,” Hye-rin’s sister announced loudly as if she had read my mind. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I guess I will,” I winked.
“For the love of Pete!” Hye-rin hissed without taking her eyes off the road. “Don’t even think about hitting on my sister.”
“For the love of Pete, go back to driving!” Hye-min yelled.
When Mom told me I’d be assigned to hunt witches for the first time, I hadn’t thought of babysitting a pair of bickering siblings as part of the job.
The first time I’d set my sights on Lee Hye-rin was at a soiree held by the Witch-hunter Association in Seoul. She’d been an underage witch back then, one of the decoys in the witches’ big ambush. Even to this day, a permanent image of her grasping her father’s tuxedo sleeve still crosses my mind. I had found her after the riots —
“Nara.”
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Sure.” A tight smile was all she could offer.
“LEE HYE-RIN!” The loud bellow came from a boy, maybe twice Hye-rin’s size, who had flung his arm around her shoulders. “Are you coming to Jessie’s place tonight?”
Hye-rin offered another tight smile and chewed at her lip. I could tell the next decision will be one she’d regret.
“I’ll be there at eight.”
***
“I’m afraid I’ll have the worst time. You see, parties aren’t really my thing,” Hye-rin muttered as soon as she parked her car.
I laughed, because I didn’t understand. I felt as if I was already there, at the party, watching jocks chug down beer and dance to corny pop songs, whatever played frequently on the radio. If your lungs thought drowning was a good idea, they might as well be gardens by now, watered by alcohol.
“Your make-up looks alright.”
“Not too shabby?”
“Definitely.” I gave her hand a squeeze.
She leaned over and her nimble fingers tugged softly at the tail of my tie. Her breath felt warm against my neck. Her smile was too bright. “You look great.”
“If anyone asks who I am…”
Hye-rin shot me a look, “Which I doubt they would.”
“If anyone asks who I am, tell them I’m your girlfriend.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
The house was packed and its rooms were dimly lit. Everything smelled too sweet, too sugary. I felt like the little mermaid when she swims into the sea witch’s cavern and sees the garden of the victims who try and grab on to her tail, her arms.
Holly, one of the girls from my physics class, was sitting on the counter. Her boyfriend had an arm wrapped around her waist casually and gazed up at her face lovingly. It must be nice to have someone look at your face that up-close, knowing they don’t even care about your horrible skin or bad breath because they’re so into you.
Perhaps it’s the shame, or the loneliness, that I wished to assassinate, not witches.
“Wanna go upstairs?” Hye-rin grabbed my hand and we melt into the crowd of people screeching “Bohemian Rhapsody” at the top of their lungs.
We tripped over each other’s feet at the last step and crumpled into a giggling heap on the carpeted floor. Hye-rin’s breath smelled faintly of soju and candy canes, but I didn’t mind at all.
***
“How was the party?” my mother asked as I wandered absent-mindedly into her bedroom to say goodnight.
“It was alright.”
“You smell like soju.”
“Most people were drinking.”
“You went with the Lees?”
“Hye-rin Lee.”
“Don’t hang around her too much,” my mother wrinkled her nose.
“Her mother is a pureblood. If she’d been a pureblood, too, it would’ve been harder for you to obliterate her.”
My mother’s beer mug slammed against the tabletop.
“Don’t be reckless,” she snapped. “I told you not go looking for trouble, remember? We have a family legacy to keep up. The Council of Elders are relying on you.”
“The Council of Elders should’ve known better—”
My mother’s slap felt sharp on my cheek, just like the shame I’d left her with, but I didn’t flinch.
“Eight years ago, your sister died to save your life. Are you trying to convince me that you should have been the one who died in her place?”
***
“I… am so… s-s-sorr-ry…” I spluttered, breathless.
She’d been kind enough to make me herbal tea with what she had found in the mason jars in the kitchen and we ended up sitting on the kitchen floor at 3 a.m., eating Froot Loops with a touch of ginger and banana milk.
“Did you know they all taste the same?” she asked.
“What tastes the same?”
“The cereal. They’re different colors, but they’re actually the same flavor.”
“There goes my childhood.”
She laughed, even though it wasn’t really that funny. “Why don’t you stay the night?”
“My mom would freak out.”
“All moms freak out.”
“At least you don’t have to worry about whether your mom stops loving you over your mistakes each night.”
“That’s easy enough,” she scoffed. “I’m sure she never loved me to begin with.”
***
You remember what love looks like at sixteen.
It’s the summer of your first job and you’re hopelessly in love. It was a thrilling feeling — a feeling accompanied by poetry written on the back of coffee shop napkins and lyrics you copied down painstakingly in a notebook. It was a feeling narrated by love songs. Or maybe summer rain that went pitter patter on the windowsill. It was a rare anticipation for miracles that made you hope for more, even in dire straits.
You remember everything about that night.
In front of you is the most beautiful girl in the world and the two of you are drunk enough to forget what you learnt in Geography class but sober enough to remember all the lyrics to “Wonderwall”. Her hair smells like coconut oil. Her hands are cold enough to warm them with yours. You’re so close to kissing her, but you don’t.
Your promise to your mother dangles half-heartedly off your lips and she knows this, even when your dagger is on the floor, ready for you to pick it up and plunge into her heart. She kisses you anyway. Devouring her heart isn’t an easy task, not when she’s devoured yours first.
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Latifa Sekarini is an Indonesian writer. Her stories have appeared in The Jakarta Post.
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We are looking for contemporary fiction between 1,500 and 2,000 words by established and new authors. Stories must be original and previously unpublished in English.
The email for submitting stories is: shortstory@thejakartapost.com
