*

It had been nearly two weeks since my husband went to the construction site in Jeju-do. Even when he had long business trips out of town, he usually made sure to spend the weekends at home, but this time was different. He called last week, then this week again to say that he couldn’t make it back—the first time because the client suddenly requested adjustments to the floor plan, and then because planes couldn’t take off in the heavy snowfall. It’s unbelievable. I’ve never seen it snow so much. Wow.

       Having fun?

       Huh? Am I having fun? Not really.

       That was how he was. His voice betrayed his every emotion, but he couldn’t admit that he liked something even if I asked. Especially when I couldn’t be with him. I really liked it when he answered that way, so I’d ask him sometimes, just so I could hear it again. Having fun?

 

*

Mom, this is Yeon-ho.

       Unlike other children his age, the boy next to Min-jun looked me in the eye and said, Hello, instead of bowing. And he smiled. It was the very definition of a beam, I thought. Innocent eyes and skin flushed with cold.

       He wore the same high school uniform as Min-jun, but was about five centimeters taller. I told you about him before, right? My friend who transferred from Hawaii.

       The word “Hawaii” triggered my memory. Ah, I remember. It’s nice to meet you, Yeon-ho. Yeon-ho had transferred to my son’ss chool about two months earlier. I’d never seen him before, but all the moms knew about him. His mother was the actress Joo Su-jin, who had been briefly active in the ’90s before vanishing from the industry. She had instantly captured the audience’s attention with her bold features and bad girl image,distinguishing herself from the crowd of demure-faced actresses. But two or three TV shows and a movie later, she disappeared. There’d been some sort of scandal involving a married chaebol, and like most such scandals, the truth never came out, but no one really thought it was completely unfounded.

       My husband swears Yeon-ho’s dad is the chairman of ------ Group, someone had said in the group chat. Really? I thought it was ------ Construction. They do look kind of similar. Apparently, he gave her a hotel in Hawaii. What good is a hotel? She’s still just a mistress. I feel sorry for the boy. Then came the series of emoticons. The group chat was exclusively for the mothers of a select few, high-achieving students, and noone could stop talking about the new transfer and his mother. Under thei nvisible pressure, I forced myself to leave a crying emoticon. The group chat continued to deliver updates. About how someone had seen her in a café in the neighborhood, and that she looked somehow different from before. About which cram school Yeon-ho had enrolled in. I’d long since learned that it was best for my mental health not to get involved too much in group chat conversations. But people would become wary around members who never showed any reaction at all, so I’d always give inoffensive responses and cute emoticons. Min-jun was not only the class president, but he was also at the top of his class, so the other moms would often ask me for cram school information. I told them everything I knew without hesitation. That alone would make me a “good person” in their eyes. But I knew that the more I spoke, no matter what the topic, someone would find something to nitpick about. That was what it meant to have a high achiever for a son. That was what it meant to have an award-winning architect for a husband. Not only that, I was one of the younger mothers in the chat room because I’d married relatively young. I’d experienced the silent psychological warfare between mothers since Min-jun was in kindergarten. That was why I chose to be the quiet one. The one who didn’t know too much. The one who was as invisible as possible.

       Mom, can we have sandwiches? The ones with avocado. I told Yeon-ho how good you make them.

       Min-jun was being especially well-behaved because he’d said he wanted to go watch a movie with friends—including Yeon-ho—in the evening.

       The movie theater? I don’t know, Min-jun. Are you sure? You have finals coming up, I said, discreetly averting my gaze.

       We’re all gonna do social distancing, and nobody’s gonna talk. Just this one movie, Mom, and I’ll get right back to studying. He turned to Yeon-ho. Right?

       Yeon-ho looked at me and flashed a grin. Then he nodded to Min-jun.

       Is there anything you don’t eat, Yeon-ho? Allergies?

       Nope. I like everything. I’m hungry, he said, looking me in the eye again with a friendly smile, and took off his jacket.

       I went to the kitchen, and the boys went back to Min-jun’s room, exchanging jokes. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the way Yeon-ho spoke with such ease, as if unaware that we were strangers. What a funny boy.

       Opening the fridge, I fished out the ingredients. I cut the avocado in half and pulled out the pit. The soft green flesh looked so ravishing. I made to throw out the pit, but paused. I held it in my hand—the hard, round texture against my skin—pressing it hard against my fingers and palm as if I didn’t care if it broke. When I opened my hand, the pit was completely unchanged, but it had left a round imprint on my palm.

I pulled out one of my more neglected plates and set up the sandwiches, then added a side of muscats. While the boys ate, I worked on some hot chocolate—I boiled milk and whipped cream in a pot, and diced up tiny pieces of dark chocolate. I drank in the heavy aroma of chocolate and smiled. Do you want some marshmallows too?

       Two for me, Min-jun said, and Yeon-ho added, I’m okay. I like your sandwiches. Mm!

       As he munched, Yeon-ho would give the occasional thumbs-up and exclaim how much he enjoyed them. It was funny how he combined his accented Korean with his perfect English. C’mon, man, knock it off, Min-jun laughed, giving Yeon-ho a friendly smack in the arm. My mom won’t let me eat them, Yeon-ho said. She calls them “blood avocados.” I’d heard of blood diamonds before, but blood avocados? People kill people in Mexico. For avocados.

       Really? Why? Min-jun and I looked at him, our expressions identical. Yeon-ho shrugged and said nonchalantly, Money problems, I think? That’s Mexico for you. A mafia country.

       I brought the boys their hot chocolate, but Yeon-ho took a sip and coughed. Sorry, I—I don’t—can’t eat—drink hot chocolate.

       I’m sorry, I had no idea. Would you like something else to drink? Cola?

       Do you have milk?

       I’m sorry, we’re out.

       That’s okay. Cola is good.

       Quit complaining, Min-jun said in disbelief. What are you, eight? Just get milk at home or something.

       I gave Min-jun a warning look. While Min-jun was on the skinny side, Yeon-ho had broad shoulders, with hints of toned muscles showing through his shirt. I brought out the cola and poured a cup for him. Do you play sports, Yeon-ho?

       He says he played volleyball. He’s a total beast in gym class, Min-jun explained. Beast? Yeon-ho repeated, and pretended to hit him. We all burst out laughing. I reached over to put the cola in front of Yeon-ho, but he also reached out. I only realized how cold my hand was because his was so warm. In that split second, I thought he looked at me, but I pretended not to notice. Someone had said, Kids these days grow up so fast that they barely look like kids. Even the way they think is different. Can you imagine, middle school boys getting their girlfriends to— I wasn’t the one who said that, so who? It was probably one of the mothers. Or maybe I’d repeated it once or twice too. Either way, I’d heard it more times than I could count.

       Once the boys were gone, I took the cup of hot chocolate Yeon-ho had left and warmed it up in the microwave. Then I took it to the computer and looked up Joo Su-jin. The screen was quickly filled with pictures of a famous idol who shared her name. It took a lot of scrolling to find the one I was looking for. Unlike other actresses, she wasn’t smiling in many of her pictures. Red lips. Long, curled hair. Low-cut shirts. Then, a picture of her in a ponytail and cutesy overalls, beaming. It must have been from when she first debuted. Her young self had the same smile in her eyes as Yeon-ho. I clicked on the thumbnail to look closely, but the whole article had been deleted. I tried a few more times, but no luck. So I kept looking up more of her photos and articles. The last article about her chaebol scandal was published in 2005. Living in Hawaii . . . reported to have given birth to a son . . . regrets about the entertainment world . . . twenty-six years old . . . nothing known about the father . . . the chaebol extramarital affair . . . other rumors . . . satisfied with her life . . . She was two years my junior.

       Then I put my own name into the search bar. Scrolling past results of a singer and a journalist I didn’t recognize, I found a photo from an interior design magazine article from six years ago, taken with my husband. Titled “A Hanok Architect’s Naturalist Interiors,” the article featured a picture of the two of us, side-by-side on the living room sofa. We looked so much younger, livelier back then. Part of that was thanks to the lighting and photoshopping, of course, but we definitely had smoother faces. Min-jun was only in fifth grade at the time. From that perspective, six years was not a short time at all—enough for us to have aged so much. My husband wore a blue Brioni shirt, and I wore a white MiuMiu blouse and a yellow Hermès twilly scarf. My wife is an art major, and I respect her sensibilities . . . dated in school . . . she had a solo exhibition in grad school . . . immediately after getting married . . . don’t have to live in a hanok . . . during the interview, the couple . . . the importance of blank spaces.

       The memories came flooding back. I had toiled for two weeks before the interview and photoshoot, fixing up and cleaning the interior. I went from department store to antique store, scouring every shelf for props, and woke up at dawn on the morning of the interview to pick up flowers from the wholesale market. I even got my makeup done professionally. Make it look as natural as possible, I’d said, then came home and acted as though nothing had been staged. A flush crept up my cheeks. I’d been proud of that at the time. I closed the tab and scrolled down for more search results. A couple of thumbnails from some group and solo exhibitions nearly twenty years ago. My maternal uncle was the director of the gallery where I held my solo exhibition. I turned off the window and looked at the clock. It was dark in the living room. I hadn’t realized it was evening already. I have to turn on the lights, I thought, but it took an eternity to rise from my seat. I ate dinner alone and thought of my husband. It wasn’t snowing here in Seoul. His voice sounded excited when we spoke in the afternoon. He said it was snowing like crazy. That he’d never seen so much snow in his life. So why hadn’t he sent a single picture? He would usually do that, send pictures of the landscapes he saw, the construction sites he visited, and the food he ate. I paused mid-meal and turned on my phone. Is it still snowing a lot? I waited, but he didn’t text me back. I cleaned up the kitchen and filled the tub with hot water.

       Stripping off my clothes, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. When I brushed back my hair, I spotted strips of white amongst the black. My arms were flabby. And . . . Back when I was breastfeeding Min-jun, I hadn’t given a second of thought what would happen to the shape of my breasts. No, not back then. Was it the hormones? Was I not thinking straight at the time? Then . . .
what about now?

       As I slid my foot into the water, my phone rang. My husband. But now I didn’t feel like picking up. I let the phone go on ringing until it stopped. Then it chimed. Sorry, I was in a meeting. Everything ok? Without sending a response, I sank into the tub. Yeon-ho, I suddenly thought, and my mind went to his bright smile, his soft fingers and toned shoulders. Suddenly? No. That’s not right. To my shock, I realized I’d been thinking about him since the moment he left. I shook my head again and again and laughed, telling myself I was laughing in disbelief. I’ve finally lost it, I said to myself, shutting up when I noticed my voice echoing off the tiles. Even though no one’s around to hear.

       It was past ten in the evening when Min-juncame home. Yeon-ho’s mom drove us.

       So you saw her in person?

       Obviously. Why do you ask?

       Is she pretty?

       Huh? I dunno. About the same.

       Same as who?

       Dunno. You, I guess.

       My husband called again, and I picked up from bed. It was snowing so much, he said. Again with the snow. Guess what, I said, Joo Su-jin’s son came to our house today.

       Whose son?

       You know, that actress from years ago. That chaebol mistress I told you about.

       Oh, that one. Is that right? Is he friends with Min-jun?

       They go to the same cram school. I never saw him before either. He’s really tall. Can’t speak Korean all that well, but somehow he manages to say everything he wants to say. He’s kind of funny. By the way, Honey. Have you ever heard of blood avocados?

       Is Min-jun all right?

       Hmm? Yeah, he just came back from seeing a movie. Says Joo Su-jin drove him back. Apparently, she looks like me.

       My husband laughed. Looks like you how? Now I want to get a look.

       Is that right? I asked playfully. So when are you coming home? I’m getting suspicious, you know. Having a great time without me?

       That’s my line, my husband replied with a loud laugh, Please go to bed now, ma’am.

       Be careful, okay?

       Huh? Of what?

       You know.

       My husband said that he was scheduled to come home next Friday evening. I lay back, but for some reason couldn’t fall asleep. His laughter had been too loud for comfort.

 

 

*

The weekend came, and I dropped by the local hair salon in the afternoon to dye my hair but was convinced by the stylist to get a perm, too. As I waited for my hair to set, I got my first manicure in ages. When I picked the burgundy varnish, the young manicurist chirped that I’d made the perfect choice, that burgundy was the perfect color for someone with fair skin like me. Her silky-smooth hands took mine, and I noticed that her nails were clean and unvarnished. No nail art for you? I asked. Even nails need some rest now and then, the young woman replied. I like bold colors too, she said, rubbing cream on my hand and gently cradling it in hers. Then came the massage. With each touch, I felt myself relax more and more. The manicurist spread cream on my nails and began to peel away the cuticles. I left my hands in her care and scrutinized her focused face. There was a healthy shape to her cheeks, and under the light, even the downy hairs on her skin were visible on the beautiful contours of her neck. I felt the urge to ask her how old she thought I looked. Instead I said, You have such clear skin. I envy you. Eyes still trained on my hands, she gave a shy chuckle. Me? Not at all. But thank you. She never commented on my looks.

       Hey Mom, can Yeon-ho sleep over today? Min-jun called as I drove home.

       Min-jun, this is so sudden—

       Yeah, he says his mom’s going somewhere so no one’s gonna be home, so he asked me to stay over, but I told him that I—

       I turned the car around and headed to the local department store before the conversation had even ended. The exterior was already lit with bright lights arranged in the shape of a Christmas tree. It made my heart flutter, and suddenly I wanted to hear Christmas carols. Browsing the grocery section on the lower level, I picked up milk and blueberries for the cart—picking up, then putting back down the avocados—and grabbed beef for steak, vegetables for salad, and a bottle of truffle oil, moving on to the bakery to pick up some Mont Blancs and canelés. Constantly fighting the urge to buy just one more thing, I made it back home before it was too late.

       Whoa, that smells great, Min-jun said, putting down his bag. The boys smelled of the cold. Yeon-ho pulled off his down jacket to reveal a black tracksuit. Like before, he met my eyes as he said hello. New hairstyle? he asked, pointing at my hair. It looks good on you.

       C’mon man, that’s gross, Min-jun snickered, heading to the bathroom. Yeon-ho put a plastic bag straining with stuff on the table. We brought these, he said. Cups of fire noodles, fish cake bars, packs of Snoopy-brand coffee milk with high caffeine content, smoked eggs. Is this the kind of stuff you like? I asked, smiling. Yeah. Especially this, Yeon-ho replied, picking up the fire noodles. I thought of the steak I’d left marinating in the truffle oil. The scent of simmering pumpkin soup permeated the room.

       Yeon-ho explained that his mother had gone out of town to do volunteer work with people from an animal protection group. Oh, she must be quite the animal lover, I said. Yeon-ho drove a fork into the salad and replied, Animals and golf.

       My dad’s crazy about golf, too, Min-jun said, and I nodded halfheartedly. Yeon-ho didn’t seem to like the truffle sauce. She’s sleeping over there because she’s going out to play golf at dawn, Yeon-ho explained without waiting for the question. She always does. In that instant, I caught a hint of loneliness in his gaze. But it must be nice for her to get regular exercise like that. And it’s wonderful to do volunteer work. The oven timer dinged, and I pulled out the steaks. What the heck, Mom. Is it somebody’s birthday? Min-jun asked impishly. You’re cooking all this just cause Yeon-ho came over? I replied nonchalantly, I certainly did, and cast a discreet look in his direction. Yeon-ho smiled. Before Min-jun could say anything, I added, I had all these ingredients lying around and forgot about them.

       Min-jun polished off his plate, but Yeon-ho picked at his food. You don’t like steak? I asked, but he replied, No, it’s good, and popped a slice into his mouth, chewing for what seemed like an eternity. Min-jun ate a piece from Yeon-ho’s plate. You full, man? Mom, the thing is, Yeon-ho’s sick of meat cause he ate so much of it back when he worked out. So now he only eats crap like—uhh, stuff like tteokbokki and instant noodles. Yeon-ho didn’t deny it. I always liked that stuff. Hot. Spicy.

       I tore the packaging from the cup noodles the boys had brought and put the kettle on. Again, we sat around the table. Yeon-ho with his fire noodles, me with my steak, and Min-jun—who’d already finished his food—with a glass of lemonade. I barely tasted the juicy tenderloin steak. The scent of instant noodles and meat whirled together over the table until I wasd izzy. Dude, you’re inhaling those noodles, said Min-jun. They’re that good? Damn. With a look at Yeon-ho—whose lips were red with sauce—he got up to make his own cup. Sit down, I said firmly. They stared. I’ll make it for you, I added brightly, and put more water in the kettle. Leftover steak sat in the sink. Soup and salad still waited on the counter. The boys wolfed down the awful red noodles. After the meal, Yeonho opened up the carton of Snoopy milk. This stuff’s the best. He opened up another carton and held it out to me. Here, it’s a present.

       Once the boys were done, they went to Min-jun’s room. I tidied up the kitchen, wondering if I should pack up the leftovers, but decided in the end to toss it all. I didn’t even want to look at the food left half-eaten in the sink. After rushing to load and start the dishwasher, I got to wiping down the table when Yeon-ho came out of his room with phone in hand. Um, my mom wants to talk to you. It was a video call. Unprepared, I took the phone and brushed back my hair with my free hand. Joo Su-jin looked at me from across the screen. She said things like, Thank you for letting Yeon-ho sleep over. . . he’s old enough to know better . . . should have thanked you earlier . .. grateful you’re watching over him . . . What did I tell her? No, no trouble at all . . . only right for a friend to look out for him . . . focus on your volunteer work . . . the weather’s cold . . . or something close to that. At some point, Joo Su-jin called for Yeon-ho, and when I turned, Yeon-ho had one hand on my shoulder, body pressed against mine. I could smell him, and a faint whiff of soap. Together, we looked at Joo Su-jin, our faces on a smaller screen in the corner. All good now, Mom? Yeon-ho said, and I glimpsed a man I didn’t recognize next to Joo Su-jin. Yeon-ho put his hand on mine, which was wrapped around his phone. I slipped out and said a hasty goodbye, pulling back. Yeon-ho and Joo Su-jin said something in English for a while, and he sounded somehow unhappy, giving halfhearted responses. I turned around, pretending not to hear, and cleaned up the plates. The call finished, and Yeon-ho said, Mom says thank you. And I want to thank you too. With a grin, he went back to Min-jun’s room.

       I wanted something sweet. Reaching into the fridge, I grabbed a canelé and the carton of coffee milk. I sat myself down in the living room and watched TV on low volume, snacking. The milk was cloying. Checking my phone, I noticed I’d missed a call from my husband. The mothers’ group chat was complaining about the scope of this term’s final exams and sharing information about the new science cram school that had just opened. In the midst of the conversation, I spotted Yeon-ho’s name. They caught Yeon-ho smoking. And all he does at school is sleep at his desk. What in the world is Joo Su-jin doing? I stared blankly at the group chat, and finally asked about the science cram school I wasn’t interested in. The other moms chimed in with one response after another, and I left a crying emoticon as I closed the app.

       Yeon-ho was an unwelcome new arrival to the class. And Min-jun seemed close with him. Would he be a bad influence on Min-jun? I couldn’t say either way, but I wasn’t worried. Min-jun was more thorough than he looked. He’d been obsessed with making study plans and carrying them out since he was in middle school. None of his classmates hated him, but none were close to him, either. Min-jun drew a clear boundary around himself. Funny. I was just like that too, my husband had said, not sounding displeased. I was one of the few who had stepped through his boundary. I liked the way he kept a distance from most people, and within his boundary, I felt comfortable. But sometimes, I worried that Min-jun might have taken after me. My husband had said the following to me—only once: Sometimes even when I’m with you, I feel completely alone. I think I replied, It’s probably your imagination. I added, Everyone gets lonely from time to time. I told him that I felt the same way once in a while too. But the truth was, it was like he’d seen right through me.

       Going back to my room, I called my husband. He talked about how the construction was coming along, how the client was a control freak, but the project was going to turn out to be another masterpiece. Having fun? I asked.

       Well, I mean, I can’t complain. I won’t need to worry about going overbudget.

       Joo Su-jin’s son is sleeping over at our place today.

       Really? He’s friends with Jun?

       I don’t really know yet. Joo Su-jin video called me.

       Really?

       She was with a man. It’s almost finals season, but she went out golfing, apparently, said she was doing volunteer work.

       Golf sounds nice. It’s warmer in the south.

       What’s wrong with her, just leaving her son alone like that?

       Come on, let’s keep our noses out of other people’s business.

       Honey, he gave me a carton of coffee milk as a present. You know the one with the picture of Snoopy on it? It’s supposed to be really high in caffeine and I can literally feel my heart pounding. My hands are shaking.

       What? You’re really sensitive to caffeine, why would you drink it so late? The background noise got louder. I thought I heard a woman’s voice. Sorry, I’m at a work dinner.

       I hung up. And thought of Joo Su-jin. I had recognized her immediately, but her style had changed completely. Which was natural, since it had been nearly twenty years. But that short hair, and the way she looked into the camera without a hint of makeup on her face . . . she looked nothing like the mother of a high school student. Who was the man next to her? Yeon-ho never mentioned a father.

       Midnight came and went, and I only felt more awake. I slipped out of my room and went to Min-jun’s door. There was no sound. Brewing warm herbal tea and plating some cookies, I knocked. There was no response, so I gently pushed open the door. Min-jun was asleep in bed, and Yeon-ho was lying on the floor, staring at his phone with earbuds in. When he spotted me, he got up and crept out of the room. How long has Min-jun been in bed?

       Not long, he just said he was going to sleep.

       I replied, I’m sorry, I thought you were both still studying. I would have gotten extra bedding out for you sooner.

       It’s okay, Yeon-ho said. Can I have this? He asked, pointing at the tea. We went to the living room and sat on the sofa.That Snoopy coffee was really something, Yeon-ho. I still don’t feel sleepy at all. Yeon-ho chuckled. I always sleep really late cause I’m texting my friends in Hawaii . . . Hey, is that a Twombly?

       He pointed at a picture on the corner of the living room wall. I couldn’t believe the name Twombly came out of his mouth. No, I painted that one. But I’m surprised you’ve heard of him. He was one of my favorite artists when I was in university. But he might also have been the reason I gave up on art. Everyone thought of him when they saw my work. They thought it was a knock-off, or something close to art plagiarism. I thought, I wish I could have overcome that. I hadn’t understood the distinction between being influenced by another artist, being an extension of the artist, or being a knock-off. Maybe it was because I never had the desire to overcome Twombly and accomplish something new. Not everyone is brimming with ambition.

       Yeon-ho said that he liked Twombly, too. When I told him that I was an art major, his eyes lit up. I’m gonna start again when classes finish for the holidays. Art, I mean. I asked, Are you going to aim for a university in Korea? He replied, Well . . . I don’t know. Mom says she’s going to live in Korea now. With her boyfriend. I thought back to the man I glimpsed on the video call. I see, I had no idea you liked art, Yeon-ho. Lights from the other condo units glowed outside the window. A solitary lamp lit the living room, and when we went quiet, the room seemed even more dark and peaceful. It was an unfamiliar feeling, sitting alone with Yeon-ho in the living room, exchanging conversation past midnight. Unfamiliar, and strange. There were moments in life that I wished would last forever, even though I knew they were inappropriate. I thought to myself, I’ve felt this before. But when?

       As the conversation went on, I learned more about Yeon-ho. His father was not from some chaebol family, but rather, was a classmate of Joo Su-jin’s from elementary school. But Joo Su-jin had married a businessman in Hawaii instead of him, and now they were divorced and she was seeing someone else. The hotel in Hawaii was hers, but had been given from herside of the family, not her ex-husband’s. Yeon-ho also explained that he had started school a year late, so he was actually eighteen years old. Nineteen, in Korean age. I wondered why I was so happy to hear he was a year older than Min-jun. With hushed voices, we went on almost in whispers. Hoping Min-jun wouldn’t wake. On and on we talked, about our favorite artists and the works of art that stuck with us over the years. You know so much more than you let on, Yeon-ho.

       Everyone at school thinks I’m stupid. Because my Korean’s bad . . . and that makes me sound stupid.

       That’s not true.

       But you thought so too, Yeon-ho said, staring quietly. His right eye was slightly smaller than his left. There was a subtle asymmetry to his face. His gentle eyes, and the glimpses of emptiness inside—how did I recognize them? Me too. Other people think I’m stupid too.

       But you’re not. You’re not stupid, Yeon-ho said, a smile growing on his face. The smile spread to my lips, too.

       Really? To be honest, I don’t really know anymore, I said, rising from the sofa. It was almost two in the morning.

       Yeon-ho said that he would go back home. I tried to stop him, saying it was too dark, that we had a guest room, but he put on his jacket, saying he’d intended to go home to sleep to begin with. As he stood in the doorway, he turned. Wanna come too?

       I burst out laughing, and Yeon-ho looked at me without smiling. When I shook my head, he said something quietly. I didn’t understand, so I asked him again. He repeated himself, slowly.

       “One-to-one correspondence.” How do I say that in Korean?

       Once Yeon-ho had gone, I went out to the balcony. But I quickly stepped back. I wanted desperately to look outside, but I was just as terrified. Fearful that he would look up. That he would spot me.

       Should I have said things like, Is it true that you smoke? Does your mother know about this? I sat on the sofa all night, the same thoughts running through my head over and over again. I thought of his scent, his big, warm hands and toned shoulders, his gaze when he asked, Wanna come too? and the way he turned to leave. What would have happened if I had gone along with him? Had I heard wrong? What was it that he saw in me?

       Min-jun opened his door and flinched. Mom, you scared the crap out of me. What are you doing up so early? It was six in the morning, and still dark. Min-jun said that he wanted to get some studying done in the morning, so I went back to the kitchen, making beef porridge and calling Min-jun over. The guy’s kind of weird.

       I could tell that he was talking about Yeon-ho, but I pretended not to know. Who?

       Yeon-ho, obviously. I tried to conceal my curiosity. Why do you say that? Min-jun replied, I asked him to study with me, but he just sat there not doing anything. It was kind of annoying, so I went to bed. When did he go home, anyway? Around midnight, I told him. That wasn’t very nice of you, going to bed without making sure your friend had someplace to sleep.

       He’s not my friend, the homeroom teacher just told me to be nice to him, so I hung out with him a few times. What a pain. Is wear I’m not gonna be class president next year. I really like the porridge, Mom. You try some too.

 

One-to-one correspondence. That was what Yeon-ho had said. I fell asleep past noon, and when I woke up, the sun was setting again. Was one-to-one correspondence really ever possible? I asked my husband in a text message. It was a long time before he gave me a response. Nope. He said nothing else for the rest of the day. I’d been thinking about how I should respond if he asked me why I asked. But when I thought about it some more, I realized that my husband didn’t ask me those sorts of questions: Having fun? Having a good time? Even though I’m not there?

       Nothing changed afterwards, except that I paid more attention to the group chat than before, and visited the convenience store in our condo complex sometimes. Once in a while, I would buy fire noodles and Snoopy milk for myself. And I’d go out on walks every day, even making sure to wear a hat and a mask, but the mothers I happened to run into always recognized me. So I ended up going out late at nights, taking long strolls that covered every corner of the park behind building 302, where Yeon-ho lived, making sure to pass right by the building as I made my way home. Min-jun was busy going between cram schools and study hall every day, preparing for finals. Doesn’t Yeon-ho go to study hall too? I asked casually, and Min-jun just replied, Nope. Once, I drove to the department store on impulse, picking out a button-downshirt that might suit Yeon-ho, my heart pounding. It would be strange to just give a gift to him, so I grabbed an inoffensive pair of gloves for Joo Su-jin, and clothes for Min-jun and my husband. Finally, I went to the cosmetics department and picked out a bottle of aromatic body oil for myself. On the way home, I thought of how I might give him the present without making it awkward, humming to the music from the radio. I’d never heard the song in my life.

       Joo Su-jin is moving to Busan, someone said in the group chat. What is she thinking, when her son’s going to be a high school senior next year? It doesn’t matter, he’s getting in on special exception, anyway. She’s following yet another man somewhere. Another sugar daddy? Thank god the boy won’t be around to muck up the class anymore.

       I’m sure they have theirreasons.

       I instantly regretted what I said. The “unread participants” number next to my message ticked down quicker than I could delete it. The group chat soon went quiet. I sent a crying emoticon. No one responded. What bothered me more was the fact that I hadn’t held myself back rather than the fact that I was right.

 

*

When my husband came home, he looked like he had lost some weight. There were more white streaks in his bushy hair. He held out a souvenir. A cashmere muffler from Loro Piana. An early Christmas present, he said. Thanks for holding down the fort. He smiled, trying to read my face. I replied, If you had the time to buy this, you should have dropped by the barbershop instead, Honey. He insisted that I come with him, tugging on my arm and saying we had been apart for too long. We’ll go to the barbershop, and then pick out some wine together.

      We ran into Yeon-ho at the barbershop entrance. Joo Su-jin was at the cash register, and Yeon-ho spotted us from next to her. Hi there. He looked at me, then at my husband, and back at me. Joo Su-jin was in a down jacket, holding a canvas bag. When we recognized each other, we exchanged high-pitched greetings and bows. I’m so sorry, I should have thanked you sooner. Not at all, it was our pleasure . . . That was the sort of conversation we had. I was your biggest fan back in the day. My husband said, So was I. He held out his hand, and she shook it. Joo Su-jin looked a lot more casual in person than on the video call, and she was more petite than I’d expected. She was nothing like the young woman I remembered from TV. There was no hint of the old, bad girl image. Instead, she had the most genuine smile. Yeon-ho stood there awkwardly, not even glancing my way. Or was it me who refused to look him in the eye? He wore the same canvas shoes as his mother. Mom, let’s get going. We’re gonna be late, he said, taking her arm. Oh, right. Let’s go. Joo Su-jin brushed back Yeon-ho’s hair as he stood to accept her hand. My boy’s told me everything. He’s so big and tall, but he’s still just achild. We bowed to each other again and said our goodbyes. Take care.

       As my husband got his haircut, I sat on the sofa and opened up a magazine. The Yeon-ho who stood by Joo Su-jin was not the Yeon-ho who had haunted my thoughts for days. What did she mean, that he had told her everything? My burgundy nail polish was already starting to peel. It was disgusting. Did he see? I examined my clothes, my shoes, and my bag. Since when was I used to dressing like this?

       Were you a fan? I asked my husband on the way home. He replied, I was just being polite, I mean how long ago was she? If I saw her on the street, I’d have thought, “Huh, she’s kind of pretty for her age” and moved on. Something in his tone bothered me.

       Come on, I thought she looked really nice, all casual like that. I wish people wouldn’t be so judgmental about people they barely know. I could feel my husband’s gaze, but I kept on walking, eyes forward. I think I’ll start wearing more casual stuff too. Cheaper things, and donate the money I would have used to buy more expensive clothes.

       You can be really naïve sometimes, you know that? That was an Audemars Piguet on her wrist. Casual, my ass.

       What disappointed me more wasn’t Joo Su-jin’s expensive watch, but the fact that my husband had recognized it so quickly.

 

Min-jun was away at study hall, but we made sure the front door was locked and even set the chain before taking off our clothes. In bed, we were not judgmental. We loved those conversations. The words we normally never spoke out loud. Private, secret words in tones we didn’t use outside, words with no surplus meaning, Get down. Spread more. Shove it in me. From behind. Doggy style. Deeper. Harder. Oh yeah . . . We could forget who we normally were, going out of the way to be vulgar, which aroused us even more. Maybe it was only during sex we could truly have one-to-one correspondence. Only in those short moments.

       I once asked him to bite me, on the thigh or the backside or the forearm. At first it was playful, but then he bit harder and harder until he left bloody bruises on my skin. The pain felt so good. At first, he didn’t understand, but eventually admitted that he finally got why people were turned on by pain. But we stopped when Min-jun was born. We agreed not to do anything that would leave marks like bruises and scars. Being parents meant that sometimes we had to give up things we liked.

       We hadn’t slept together in almost a month. I came quickly, not because of my husband’s technique, but because I was thinking of someone else. I didn’t feel guilty. As I climaxed, I clutched so hard at his back that I left nail marks on his skin. I gasped, I love you, and instantly panicked, but I feigned calm and took deep breaths, still holding my husband. We returned to our usual selves. My husband lay down beside me and looked me in the face.

       What is it?

       Something just seems . . . different about you today.

       I knew why. But feigning ignorance, I said, Maybe it’s just been too long, and began to consider how I would respond if he pressed further. I could wave it off with, Was it a little cheesy to say that? I guess I must have missed you a lot, and then bury myself in his arms, and he would run his hand down my back with a smile. Then we would go to the bathroom and wash each other with warm water . . . But yet again, he didn’t ask a thing. He just stared peacefully. So I ended up being the one asking, You look like you want to say something. What is it?

       He brushed his hand against my cheek. No, it’s okay.

       With a short exhale, I asked dryly, What’s okay? But he just looked at me as though he understood everything I was. Something swelled inside me, and I wanted for one moment to tell him the truth. To just spit out what I really wanted to say, and damn the consequences. I have to tell you something. The truth is—

       He took my hand and covered his mouth. I was silenced. It wasn’t even my mouth, but I couldn’t go on. With a playful smile, he whispered, Tell me next time, okay? Let’s eat something first. I’m cooking. His voice resonated gently against my palm.

       When Min-jun came back, we were back to being warm, supporting parents, chatting like a happy family. But even when Min-jun and my husband had gone to bed, I couldn’t fall asleep. The chunks of emotion that I’d sunk into the depths would bob up without warning, coaxing a sigh each time. I listened on and on to my husband’s steady breathing until eventually, I slid out of bed and walked out to the living room. It was just past three in the morning. Grabbing the first coat I found, I walked out of the house without my mask or cell phone.

       It was bitterly cold that winter night. Under the coat, I wore nothing but my pajamas, and the wind was like a knife against my bare ankles. But now I could finally breathe. Looking up, I spotted units that still had their lights on this late at night. I wondered what they were doing, who they were waiting for. My stream of disconnected thoughts led me to building 302. Some of the lights were still on. I didn’t even know what floor Yeon-ho lived on. I turned and headed for the park. My skin ached with each icy gust against my face and neck, but ironically, I felt better. At some point I noticed tears welling in my eyes, but maybe it was because of the cold. The park was empty, just as I’d expected. The grass had long since frozen and died, and the trees were naked and shivering. I took a deep breath and kept on walking. When spring comes, they’ll explode into bloom again like nothing ever happened, I said to the trees. I liked that phrase. Explode into bloom again. Come crowding back to life . . . all beautiful again.

       Beyond the light cast by the street lamp, I spotted the light from the public restroom. I walked along, and jumped when I heard a voice. Someone sat on the bench by the restroom. For a moment, I was terrified. My heart thumped in my chest. I started to walk faster, but, to my slight relief, realized that the figure was a woman. She had her hair in a messy ponytail and wore a worn-out jacket, with her legs trembling. She didn’t look like she lived on the streets, but her clothes made it seem so. What was she doing in this neighborhood? I remembered seeing people like her before. Pale, always talking to some invisible person hovering in front of her. With one hand, she held a soju bottle. The other hand was stuffed in her pocket. I could hear snippets of her one-sided conversation. Goddammit, that’s not what I’m saying. You bitch, you bitch. I’m sick of your bullshit, you both going around behind my back, like a pair of whores. I was afraid she might try to attack. But the woman didn’t seem to see me. Once I was safely past, I wondered about the woman again. I didn’t want to go home. Hesitating at the park entrance, I finally decided to turn and go back to her.

       The woman still sat there, occasionally taking sips of soju as she shouted and laughed. Her breath rose in puffs from her mouth. Working up my courage, I went closer. Excuse me, excuse me, ma’am. The woman glanced at me and quickly looked away. I was surprised to see how she shrank guiltily as she fired on, No, no, that’s not what I meant, it’s a misunderstanding, I swear, so you have to understand. I asked, Aren’t you cold? And slowly, gently took a seat at the other end of the bench. The woman turned. She reeked of alcohol. I held my breath, terrified that she might suddenly change her tune and attack. But she staggered to her feet and then sat down again. She resumed rambling to herself. It’s supposed to be the last month of the lunar year, isn’t it? Where is your head at, I’m in the right, here. The shittiest thing about the rose of Sharon is that I don’t even have it anymore, those fucking bastards. Covering my mouth with my sleeve, I followed the woman’s gaze. There was nothing there. What did she see with her eyes? Who was she talking to? I sat there for a time, listening quietly. The more I listened, the more I felt like I understood the context of her words. Suddenly, I wanted to talk, too. But I hesitated. Without warning the woman burst out laughing. Mama, hey, baby mama, she said, looking right at me. Our eyes met for the first time. Me? How did you know I was a mother? I asked, excited. The woman gave me a curious look. She looked a lot younger than I’d taken her for. Huh? Well, uh, you heard too, right, baby mama? All of ‘em, crouching down and won’t leave me alone . . .
       The woman started to tell me her incomprehensible story like it was a life-or-death secret. Worrying she might fall back into her own world again, I said, Um, I’m sorry to interrupt, but could you slow down a little?

       I’ve got to go to work. I’m actually so busy, you wouldn’t believe it, but I swear, it was just the size of my palm here.

       How old do you think I look?

       Huh? Well, I . . . faith and hope and love, and the greatest is, you know. Then the second, and the third . . . Completely drifting away from my question, the woman ranted on with her eyes locked elsewhere.

       My legs ached, my hands were frozen, and worst of all was the burning cold against my ears. How much worse was it for her? Was she so badly broken somewhere that she couldn’t even feel the chill? Without thinking, I pulled off my coat and spread it over her lap. It’s yours. And I want you to hear me out.

       Leaning right up against her ear, I whispered briefly, quickly. The woman shrank as if in fear. I was shivering. When I finished, I took several steps back and looked at the woman again. She grabbed at the coat and clung to it, as if afraid I would try and take it away. I told her firmly, Don’t tell anyone. Don’t ever tell a soul. Then I covered my own mouth. The woman stared blankly, then began to ramble again. Not at me, but the emptiness behind me.

 

 

Translated by Slin Jung