Norang Narang

John Song,

I thought about you today. I suppose that it was hard not to, especially with our encounter still so vividly seared into my mind. The circumstances of our meeting were not chance, nor was it dealt by the hand of fate, but I find that it makes the experience so much more better. It was a choice, mine and yours, a temporary contract entered by mutual agreement, and I do not find myself regretting it at all. I enjoyed it; both the food and your company.

You are a quirky person, John Song. But then again, so am I. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons that the two of us had gotten along so well, especially in such a short span of time. Deciding to go out with you was a calculated response on my part. Admittedly, at first, I harboured no expectations while browsing through the Norang Narang app, merely a mild curiosity at heart. Many of the profiles were too similar; either too exaggerated or a cliched brand of uninteresting. The part about your habit of tossing stones into the Han River threw me off at first. It was so… open and sincere, and human in a way that I find most of the world lacking. 

I lingered upon your profile the longest, feasting my eyes upon every word. There was a quiet rhythm to yours. Memories of my own childhood began to trickle through, and I knew that if I closed my eyes at that moment, I could almost imagine myself decades back. The distinct taste of the crisp kampung air blended with the quiet lapping of the river nearby. Small figures rushing to the edge of a soft blue precipice, hand in hand, joy spread across the faces of the young and old, as the pitter-patter of pebbles tapping against the pristine surface of the water filtered through.

When I opened my eyes again, it was to find the beginning of gentle tears in them.

Involuntarily and because of this, I had begun to build up an image of you in my head, and I quickly found myself intrigued. The fact that you enjoyed good food appealed to me as well, and for that, my decision was an easy one. I am not easily accustomed to feeling nervous, but as we exchanged our contact information, there was a tense, fluttery knot in my gut. If it helps, the thought of cancellation never crossed my mind. If anything, that only served to increase my fascination. It was a curious emotion, one that I seldom explore, and it was a welcome change.

Unfortunately, I was not prepared to amalgamate the profile constructed in my mind with the blustering, arrogant man that greeted me at the agreed-upon location. In this way, my first impression of you was less than flattering. Truthfully, I would have made my leave right there and then; rudeness be damned, no matter how much I detest it. But then, by some miracle or granted foresight, I saw through you, John Song. I saw the man hiding behind the perceived stature of wealth and recognition, one that tried so desperately to serve a perpetually dissatisfied audience and the one that had gradually cracked and yielded towards the social standards of the acceptable norm. You had admitted defeat to that shared delusion, but you had not bent to it. And for that, you were worth my time. After all, pressure creates the most splendid of gems, does it not?

Convincing you to drop your mask was a much harder task. I indulged your ideals of the ‘perfect date’, showing only the barest hints of discomfort as you insisted on increasingly extravagant displays. We shared small talk to pass the time, meaningless idle chatter, but pleasing nonetheless and it was just right to straddle the thin line between awkwardness and a content silence. 

I suppose that it all led up to that moment, at the dinner. The food was fancy, and overly so for my tastes, but I allowed it for a moment. My displeasure was much more evident at this point, and you were quick enough to finally catch on. The vacuum that soon followed drained the lightheartedness from the table of two gave us both the much needed time to slow down and think. 

By the end of a minute, you were squirming in your seat. My discomfort became yours, and it was plain to see on your face. Like dominoes, our moods reflect those around us, I couldn’t help but grimace internally as the waiter twitched past the table, a frozen smile stretched on his face. People are often so eager to please, that they subconsciously transform themselves into mirrors.

You broke the silence first, desperate, and I won the unspoken silent game. I remember that the first real words out of your mouth was about the local arts, a common ground of sorts from what little you knew about me from the description blurb in my Norang Narang account. I grasped onto the olive branch that you were tentatively offering, and smiled, sincere.

Back and forth, we talked about the cultural richness of the place. What you lacked in knowledge, you more than made up for in raw enthusiasm. You were not at all subtle, and it was clear that your real fascination primarily lay with my profile picture. As with everything I do, the picture itself was meticulously chosen after much consideration. A Korean traditional mask called a tal; used for war and for protection, for death and design. The conversation that followed soon after is undoubtedly fresh on both our minds.

“Everyone wears masks.” I had said, amused. “A thousand shards of a construct that they wish to be, but cannot. It is to hide and to conceal. It is nearly always an improper fit, but wilful blindness on everyone’s part allows the pretence to continue longer.”

You then asked me whether I wore a mask; not just on stage like you so admired but at the current moment. “Oh, yes.” I had replied without hesitation. 

To say this out loud was to drop the burning match into the oil-slick of your mind. I watched the surprise spread across your face, and the way that you tried to shut yourself against the crux of the truth. Your eyelids flickered; irises pulling from side to side as pale blue fireflies in the mid-morning sun. You swallowed once, twice. 

Teasingly, I dropped my mask a fraction, lips twitching upwards in a gentle smile. And you did the same, except that yours yielded more resignation, but there was also relief peering out from the crinkles at the corner of your eyes. Then, like a desert bloom unfurling after a sudden rain, your wariness gave way to genuine fascination that was likewise reflected in mine. The tension slid away, and from there on, it was a high-stakes quid pro quo, of sorts.

We were both quirky people, me with my local arts and taste in indie music, and you with your fervour in cinematography. The two areas intersected, and the rest of the experience at the diner from there was smooth sailing. Boldness spurred on spontaneity, and you suggested a short outing to the Han riverbank. I liked that, because I have often found that impulse is more sincere than concise calculation.

In the cool setting of a late evening, the river was especially gorgeous, glittering blue and white in the setting sun. The surface was a smooth field of turquoise cyan and the gentle motions of water lapped against the banks and the wooden structure of the walkways raised beside it. It was quiet, and peacefully so. Likewise, our walk passed by in relative silence, although it was now a more content one. 

The fact that you were practically baring your heart at that moment, was not lost on me, and I hope that you know that. This was your quiet place, wasn’t in? The design that you had so painstakingly recreated in your mind, each fine detail from the individual brush strokes of the sun peering from above, down to the pale canvas of the purple sky reflected in the dark blue… I knew that this place was especially dear to you, and I am honoured that you would deem it good enough to share this with me.

I guess that the tipping point was when I bought that cup of coffee for you. A moment of spontaneity on my part as well, I must admit. The shock on your face was not well-concealed, and my own lips twitched upwards in humour. Believing that it would be the last surprise for that day was a mistake on my part, because in the next heartbeat, you pressed something against the cold of my palm.

Perception is often stated to be a pointed weapon, and I suppose that the saying is correct, because I was stunned into a rare silence. Another moment of impulse, and sincerity in its purest form. That made the river stone that you gifted me all too precious, because it was not only freely-given but also out of the depths of your own heart. It was another fragment of yourself that you have given me. 

Yet, my work still persists in calling me away from you. The spontaneity that I had so admired in my job is now a burden that I am forced to bear for what feels like the first time in my life. What had promised to be a quick evening of fun and nothing more, turned out to be more than I could ever hope for. I want you to know that I truly enjoyed our exchange, and should the opportunity present itself, I would love to have a repeat performance. 

Now, as I stand in the crowded maze of the Incheon Airport, I cannot help but hesitate. Sentiment and fondness still linger, and more often than not, I find myself gripping the riverstone. The colours of it have imprinted in my mind by now, and although I am unsure as to why I am so mesmerised by it, the stone is something that I will treasure until the end of my days. I would like to see more of you, John Song.

Sincerely, 

               Janine Chung