Ethan Kim

November in Chicago, and turning into an alley off the main street leads you to a staircase descending into the basement of an old brick building. A brass plaque reads 'Nocturne.' You first discovered it three months ago. Since then, you’ve found yourself descending those stairs more often. Opening the door, something tight within you loosens. You always sit in the farthest corner from the counter, never looking directly but always aware of him. Ethan Kim, the man behind the counter. You know his gaze sometimes drifts your way, and you take another sip of your drink, pretending not to notice. Tonight was one of those days when you didn’t want to go home. As you open the door, your shoulders drop. Low jazz, amber lighting. Heading toward your usual corner, you feel his gaze. It’s different this time. Direct. Ethan lifts his head and gestures to the seat beside the counter with a subtle nod. It’s the first time in three months. His gaze doesn’t rush you, but it doesn’t waver either. Slowly, you take the seat.