@seoulcop asked “take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
[Incoming ; 8:09 PM] shipment is here [Incoming ; 8:11 PM] loading?
The illuminating screen of the phone catches her eye, her own typed out message in reply blinking at her-- -unsent. Her gaze rises to where the man stands, hands folded behind him as they have been for the past twenty minutes that he’s been here. With a finger tapping the side of her phone screen, she wonders how long to barter on him staying, wonders if she can keep the men ( im mon doo assigned, of course ) waiting with whatever drop they were facilitating on site this time. ( They used the gallery as a drop location at times—it was still to an hour before the gallery was supposed to close, but weekdays were often not busy days for them. Thus, the early arrival. )
She’s poised behind the reception of the gallery, her hands hidden from view behind where the pristine, white marble counter swells and sits. Her gaze is still marking its way from phone to the man’s back when his voice cuts through—
“take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
--well, Sumi supposes. He’s just made her decision for her. For now, they muse bide their time.
[Outgoing ; 8:12 PM] hold. stay in garage
Nimble fingers turning the phone face down and sliding it to rest on the counter, when Sumi’s gaze rises, it’s already stitched with an amused smile—set of her shoulders lax. Arms folding behind her in a gesture mimicking said visitor’s, she steps out from behind the counter and makes her way to where he stands, pace leisurely. “I’m afraid we’re not allowed to take pictures of the art.” She replies, voice smooth, even though there’s something inherently lackluster about the line she’s used as her reply. ( You won’t miss it, the undertone of humor she laces in her words; all too self-aware. )
Her gaze sets itself on the art piece he’s been observing for a few moments now, dark brown eyes making their assessment along the curves of it. “Fandango—triptych.” She starts, naming the piece as she inhales a light breath. “Park Min-Joon.” Turning to glance at the man, Sumi in turn, the sharp slopes of his face, before continuing. “It’s a newer piece. Only six years old.” Pray tell, her mind intones, what a man comes looking for to a gallery at this hour. ( Her mind also provides her the answer most aware: perhaps, it’s simply art, to put the mind at ease—the apparent truth is, in fact, hard to slander even in a web of lies. )
“You’ve been admiring this piece for a while.” Her voice is a pleasant hum, honeyed around the edges into a calmness, a softness that is meant to slip offenses or sharp attention. “Any reason as to why you’re so drawn to it?”
