Right before the steak arrived—just as the wineglass settled on the linen—light seeped through the gaps between the buttons of a black shirt, moonlight poured into cloth. Min-jae knew exactly where the glow came from, yet he could not look away. Su-jin noticed. She lowered her eyes just enough to confirm it was him, then spoke as if nothing had happened.
“Another glass of red?”
Her voice was cool, but her fingertips trembled. Min-jae nodded. That night, a three-second afterimage clung to his eyelids and would not let go.
The black uniform both cinched and revealed her body. Through the single undone button, a sliver of pale, delicate skin appeared to breathe—rising and falling along the hollow between her breasts. Each time Su-jin set down a plate and bent at the waist, the gap widened, then narrowed again.
Min-jae tilted his laptop screen. In the black bezel’s reflection he caught her legs: the place where black stockings bit into skin, the tiny creases behind her knees. He kept his eyes on the monitor while his hand searched for the glass; the wine had cooled, chilling his fingertips.
Whenever Su-jin approached, he bowed his head. The distance between their breaths was a hair’s breadth. She leaned in to replace his glass, and a bead of perspiration rolled from her temple. Min-jae waited for that drop to land on the back of his hand. Instead it vanished on the table, leaving no trace.
Once, Su-jin fumbled a plate. As she instinctively bent forward, her breath grazed his earlobe—0.8 seconds. Their eyes met, then slid apart. Su-jin turned away expressionless. That night, Min-jae rubbed his eyes with the finger still warm from that 0.8-second touch.
Every Wednesday, table seven became Min-jae’s. Each time Su-jin set down the wine, she bent a fraction lower. He listened to her breathing—short, occasionally broken—and traced the shape of it with silent lips. His gaze was pulled into the space between her buttons: beads of sweat on white skin, thin blue veins that looked ready to burst.
“Another glass of red?” she asked.
He nodded. As she poured, her earlobe flushed crimson. Min-jae rolled the stem of his glass, recalling that color, those trembling fingertips. Later, he drew the heat of her 0.8-second breath across the back of his hand, as though branding himself.
The following Wednesday, Min-jae returned to table seven. Su-jin approached and, lifting the wineglass, bowed even deeper. He heard her breathing again, matched its rhythm with his lips. When she came back, their eyes met—hers held a small, clear reflection of him. That night Min-jae summoned that reflected face and could not make it fall from Su-jin’s gaze.