#docs(start)

Once given a chance to speak, he quickly snags it up by first clearing his throat, lowering his gaze briefly to let out a little chuckle. Simple as that. “It could be true, but that kind of love is shallow. It could be, per se, considered as infatuation. It’s like visiting a museum and “falling in love” with a specific painting. ‘Up to you what you’d like to do with it afterwards – research? Take a picture? Try to steal it and keep it framed on your bedroom wall? It’s possible, yes, but it’s shallow.”

“Ah, but really. All I had to do was smile, and tell her I was studying film at that time.” As the male spoke with pride, you could easily tell by the way his eyes were glued to the window, and the way the corners of his lips were curled upward, that he had in his mind a sudden “grand premier” of a film that was made solely of his fondest memories. He was vividly recalling those bright days of naivety, and playfulness - something he very rarely revisits, until today. Fiddling with his own fingers, he emitted a little chuckle, lolling his head to the side. “Being this handsome helps, don’t you think?” And with that, he redirected his gaze towards the younger.

Orbs that had long remained glued to the Cafe’s glass casing swept towards the female seated across from him. Was he really not going? Even he couldn’t answer his own question; it was 20 minutes away from his first class of the day, and he felt sick--utterly terrible. The poor professor was a victim of the common cold, and he was freezing despite being clad in about two layers of sweaters, and a coat. Why he even left his studio apartment, was a mystery. Why he was exchanging words with a complete stranger, was an even bigger one. But even so, he was still relaxed, and not too bothered by his own thoughts and questions. “I feel sick, miss. I don’t think.. with a stuffed nose, and a very light head, I would be able to teach.” A little cough seemed to have sealed his statement, as when he looked down at his untouched ham and cheese sandwich, he came to realize that he really couldn’t.

"This is my first time to cry, what are you talking about.” Taewon handled it like a real man, surprisingly. His chin remained lifted despite the whole mess that was his whole facial expression: his cheeks were red, and eyes were swollen -- he was a sniffling mess yet he continued to act as though he wasn’t fazed by the scene. He just couldn’t figure out how ‘Frozen’ was able to make him cry for maybe the fiftieth time since he last watched it. “I just.. admire that bond. Gives.. gives you the desire to have a sibling of your own.” Another sniffle followed, and he was wiping his nose with the hem of his sweater’s sleeve.

“Tell me about it.” The male whispered, and subtly shook is head with a rather light hint of distaste, his lips pressed into a thin line as he went on to pay close attention to the scene laid out on the silver screen. Truth be told, he was never this.. strict when it came to shots, angles, or choice of color. He only began to be critical of the way films were executed, after years of studying film. The way a story is told is just as important as the story itself, his professors used too say, and he only came to realize this a bit later in life. It’s always like that, anyway. “That dolly shot was rather sloppy. Angled wrong, and certainly didn’t fit the whole mood of the scene. Don’t commit mistakes like this, kid. Kills the craft.”

Words thickened by their shared mother-dialect, the male responded with praises that were interlaced with loud laughter, proceeding with his “work of art” despite hearing such a loud complaint. “Waah, so pretty. I swear, you’re gonna love this mustache, Seol-ah!” He was just about done adding the smaller details of her faux facial hair, and her overall look made him feel both amused, and proud. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth in concentration, he finished his piece with one last stroke of his erasable marker, the thick line connecting the inner corners of her eyebrows. He pulled back afterwards, grinning wide, much like a child. “Ta-da! You look so beautiful.”

"Me? Talking to me?” Hands that were previously cupped around the off-duty professor’s mouth were soon shoved into the pockets of his coat, his body partially turning to face the stranger that had spoken up out of nowhere. For some odd reason, he felt as though he was obligated to respond to the question. Perhaps it was because the tone of the male’s voice was serious, and firm - it sounded as if he was of authority. A film critic, maybe? He looked familiar, anyway. He wouldn’t be surprised. “The film sucked so I had to go out and down the glorious escalator. My very own red carpet.”

“Trust me, kid, the great Jackson Pollock’s art style always has, and always will be one of the most infamous innuendos in the field of art,” The professor explained matter-of-factly with an index finger stuck up for added effect, “well.. for guys, at least.” and with his other hand, reached up to adjust his round-framed spectacles, correspondingly looking down to chuckle at his own words. “Oh my, why am I teaching you these adult things.”  Fortunately or unfortunately, the mere act of him tidying up the desk was what always wrapped up their 2-hour-long tutoring sessions about Art, and film. And, truth be told, he was reluctant to leave this time, as it was a fairly vacant Friday afternoon and the topic at hand amused him. Who wouldn’t want to talk about with a little bit of banter, anyway? “Let’s see.. aah, who else? Marcel Duchamp. His works were funny. I would definitely take a piss on one of them--”