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There’s a man who sits at the last booth of the diner every day at 4pm, orders a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie. He’s always dressed in black or black and white, he always takes out of his pocket (either from his pants or his jacket) a handkerchief and a small bottle containing a clear substance, which must be alcohol. He pours the alcohol on the handkerchief and rubs the table thoroughly as he waits for his pie and his coffee.
When they arrive, the man thanks the waitress, he always has the same pleasant tone, a sweet and throaty voice that sometimes Hongjoong can hear, when the diner is empty and he’s sitting close by, and sometimes he can’t, but he knows the inflection doesn’t change. After the waitress leaves, he produces a small transparent ziplock bag from his pocket, which he sometimes takes out along with the alcohol and cloth. The bag contains gummies, heart shaped ones. Some are red, and some are orange, and he lines them up on the table where he cleaned up.
He eats one big bite of the pie after the other with long pauses between them, with longing stares around the diner, without it lingering on any of the other clients for long enough to cause discomfort. He finishes eating, finishes drinking, picks the gummy that sits closest to him on the line on the table and puts it in his mouth, and after chewing for a while he puts them one by one back into the packet.
After that he pays and leaves, and he comes back the next day. Or so Hongjoong suspects.
Hongjoong is there sporadically. It’s walking distance from the studio, and one of the most traditional places in the neighborhood where he can get something good to eat and drink and decompress for a little bit. At times he’s accompanied by one of the other producers, but most of the time he’s alone.
He notices the man’s presence there in the beginning of July, when he’s trying to work on his solo music now that he’s finally gotten the go ahead from the head producer, but all he can come up with is recycled garbage everyone has heard a million times before. Sitting at the diner without the head producer breathing down his neck and asking how’s his progress gives him enough space and clarity to see a light at the end of the writer’s block tunnel, so he goes there often to run away and write down on his loyal small size notebook a few words and musical notes.
Whenever he’s there at 4pm, which starts happening more when he notices the other man’s pattern, he tries to sit somewhere that’ll give him a good unobstructed view of the last booth. Not in a creepy way, he doesn’t stare, doesn’t pry, but from time to time he and the stranger will lock eyes, and then the man will turn his head slowly without losing eye contact, and then do a long blink as he faces away from Hongjoong. There’s never a smile, a change in expression, just that vague interest and the lingering look. Eventually he must realize Hongjoong watches him intently, but he does nothing about it. Nothing about their interaction changes.
As the days go by, the line of gummies diminishes, and he doesn’t replenish them. From where Hongjoong sits that one Friday, he counts 12, and something about the number — which was more than double that when he first caught the man at the diner — is unsettling to him. On that day, Hongjoong couldn't come up with a single note, a single word.
“Do you know what that man’s deal is?” He asks the waitress once she’s behind the counter, saying it quietly so his voice doesn't carry through the empty diner, and he tilts his head to the side where the diner ends, and the last booth is located.
The waitress just shrugs, barely even looking in the direction Hongjoong indicated half-assedly, and she turns around to get to the sink where she starts washing the dishes. For some reason she's not fond of him, even though he tips well and is always polite. Oh well.
He looks over his shoulder to catch the man from the last booth looking directly at him. It makes him jump with discomfort, being caught in the act. And Hongjoong leaves without trying to glance at him again.
Nothing changes. Except the number of gummies keeps going down, and it unsettles Hongjoong further. It reads as bad omen, and as Hongjoong watches the man eat a gummy a day everyday, picking it up between his long fingers, sticking his tongue out, placing the heart delicately on the tip of his tongue, and pulling it back in to start chewing, his skin starts crawling. When there’s only five left Hongjoong is sure the man knows Hongjoong watches him everyday — when there was a week left he’d stopped being discreet, and before that he wasn’t sure he faked very well.
When there are two left, placed side by side on the table, orange one closest to the man on the edge, Hongjoong watches him devour the heart with his own heart in his throat. It’s like watching something forbidden, something uncanny. He might as well be eating human flesh, putting in his mouth an eye, or taking a bite off a beating heart. His lips are luscious, the inner part tinted red with the pie, the way his Adam's pome bobs up and down when he swallows is obscene. This time he stares back, his eyes not leaving Hongjoong for a single moment from picking up the candy to swallowing it, but there is no nod and no smile, only the intense challenge his dark eyes pose.
With his chest heavy, embarrassed and with the vague feeling of defeat lingering somewhere behind his lungs, Hongjoong gets up, and walks up to the last booth with his head bowed.
“May I ask you something?”
When the man turns his head to face him, he finally lets a smile bloom on his lips.
“Sure.”
“What’s gonna happen when you eat the last one?” He feels his voice trembling ever so slightly, maybe unnoticeable to a stranger. Something about the red heart gummy still on the table shakes his core. It’s as if it’s staring right at him, and maybe he’d feel more at ease at the deadly end of a knife.
“Are you gonna come back tomorrow to find out?” The man asks pleasantly, sounding genuinely curious, eyebrows slightly raised. Hongjoong had never seen him talk to someone except for the waitress. None of the other regulars had ever approached him. He wonders if he’s the only one who sees the man.
“I know what’s gonna happen."
The man arches an eyebrow, face resting on his palm as he looks at Hongjoong with interest.
“You’re gonna disappear.” He just knows it, like the thought had been imprinted in his mind, a sudden inception while wide awake. His lips are parted as if he has something else to add, but fear keeps him from saying anything else.
The man’s face slowly shifts to a more serious expression, pensive.
“Well.”
Is all he says. Well. Which doesn’t mean that he’s real, and doesn’t mean he’s not going to disappear. It means nothing.
Well.
“Can I have it?”
“Sit down,” the man gestures to the seat across from him, an invitation to be joined that Hongjoong is happy to take. “It’s yours.”