Buying Ecstasy Gyeongju

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Buying Ecstasy Gyeongju

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Buying Ecstasy Gyeongju

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Quis ipsum suspendisse. I like noisy places. In those places, it takes effort to go unnoticed. Eyes averted. Never falling in line with anyone, just standing dead-beat, arms hanging like an ape. No one turns to that kind of sorry human for help. When anyone picks a fight, I stay still and bow my head to apologize. So this is the best place for me. My thoughts trail off as I man the counter at Midopa. The stubby, one-story terminal has space for only a ticketing booth, a restroom, and Midopa. Plastic chairs fill a central waiting area, with the ticketing booth to the left, Midopa and the restroom to the right. A privacy screen stands at the restroom entrance. Seongdong is a smallish town with only five bus routes from the terminal. But I hear that oof three, four times a day. The cherry-colored cornice, thick and wavy, seems to lower the ceiling. All the windows and tables have the same cherry stain while the square sofas modeled on train seats are forest green. The dark colors set off the dust, forcing me to wipe the tables and lint-roll the sofas several times a day. Our most popular orders are instant coffee and ssanghwa-cha, a tonic tea with plenty of nuts sprinkled in. An egg yolk too, back in the day. Though rarely ordered, we do offer Americano and black tea. As a morning special, we serve bowls of bean sprout soup with rice; in the afternoon, we serve hamburger steak. But no pork cutlets. I like that. We sell everything except pork cutlets. I was broke, so I planned on busing to a seaport instead of the city. Or on some godforsaken island farming spinach. I wanted to get away from everyone and live alone. It was a week before graduation. On my way to school, a familiar figure stood by the main gate. Slight frame with long, skinny arms wrapped around. A familiar person I preferred not to become familiar with, ever. I backed up and walked away. It struck me that I could just leave. It struck, hit, seized me—I mulled over the words while heading to the terminal. To reach the terminal from my school downtown, I had to take a long, narrow path. It cut through a dry grass field. Earmarked for a new commercial center until the plans fell through, the site lay forgotten for over a decade. The path diverged into a graveled concrete footpath toward the town bus stop and a dirt path toward the express bus terminal. Right by that fork in the path stood an eerie, half-built department store. Construction had stopped at the seventh floor, the concrete formwork abandoned. I took the dirt path, trying hard not to look up at the top of the building. Once I arrived at the terminal, I bought their most expensive ticket. The bus was due to leave in an hour and fifty minutes. I ripped off the name badge from my school uniform, wrapped it up with my necktie, and threw it away. I deleted the few contacts I had on my phone. Still an hour and thirty-eight minutes to go. The waiting area was cold. Frigid wind rattled the windows. I slid open the cherry-colored door and stepped into Midopa. Warmth made my nose run. Noise drowned out my sniffling. Someone rustled through their belongings in a blue plastic sack. Clothes and slippers spilled out. Someone else slurped on their instant coffee while another person complained of having no dried pollack in their bean sprout soup. Handwritten with a brush pen, the sign mixed simple Korean letters with cryptic Chinese characters. He wore an apron stained from working in the kitchen. I glanced over the menu. I scanned the menu again while he started clearing another table. His clumsy stack of soup and kimchi bowls toppled over, clattering onto the table. A water cup clunked to the floor. I stared at my bus ticket, the destination and departure time. Then I watched as a box of dried anchovies emerged from the blue sack. The man started toward the kitchen with kimchi bowls in hand. With kimchi-stained fingers, the man pointed to the counter. There was nothing there. After wiping his hands, he pointed farther left. I saw a cherry-colored door. Sliced chili peppers gave the broth a nice kick. The next afternoon, the man cooked me hamburger steak to celebrate my first lunch on the job. No longer grumbling, he topped the patty with a triangle-shaped slice of cheese and gently added a soft-boiled egg. On the side, there was grilled pineapple and a mound of steamed rice. I ate everything with a fork. It tasted tacky, just right for Midopa. A diner had left it under a table—a light and sturdy umbrella. The soft leather handle felt like a friendly hand against my palm. Especially the ones who kept their eyes on the floor. Closing time arrived without the owner showing up. I was thrilled to steal such a good umbrella. The rain had stopped, leaving the night sky crisply clear. Breathing out mist, I took the narrow path home. Wet soil clung to my shoe soles, slowing me down. As I reached the forked path by the half-built department store, I opened the umbrella. I spun it around. Water drops scattered from the folds. With my view obscured by the large canopy, I sauntered down the whole path. Things like sleek gloves or scarves. Things that made you wriggle your hands or rub your neck, distracting you. I imagined all the things, big and small, that I could steal. Good and useful things I could hold in my hands. Once the field was behind me, I closed the umbrella. The paved footpath was dry. With no more mud slipping me up, I trotted along. Umbrella in hand. And never looking back. A granny waiting for the noon bus has started peeling a whole bunch. With heating on full blast to counter the cold, the air turns hot and pungent. The granny curses her luck—a septuagenarian still peeling garlic for in-laws who gorge on them for their health and longevity. You know how freezing it is out there? Dust swirls in the air and mingles with the thick smell of garlic and dirt. I grab a broom and start sweeping. I sweep harder to catch the fluttering garlic peel. They land under the sofas, not in the dustpan. I poke at them with the broom, circling the granny. She goes on peeling. Hey, kid. She sits behind a pillar and opens a menu. I know who she is. When upright, she hugs herself with her skinny arms. When seated, she balls her hands into fists. She let her short, ponytailed hair grow out, and then she chopped it short. In classrooms, by the school gate, by my front door, at the police station. I never knew how to address her. Neither seemed right. But I never had to call her anything. She was the one who kept calling at me. Seeking me out. By the school gate too, which made students crowd around instead of heading home. It clawed at the scruff of my neck. She hunched over as if her whole body were a spindly speakerphone. I took a few steps back and ran. For days, I stayed home. It happened a handful of times in middle school. The woman orders instant coffee. It tops the menu as the cheapest item. The most popular too. Ready to serve in less than a minute. Empty two instant coffee sticks into a white cup and add hot water. The ssanghwa-cha is served with a mini yakgwa, the Americano with a butter cookie, and the hamburger steak with corn soup. Midopa is generous with their free sides, but instant coffee comes with nothing. I grab a tray for the coffee cup. And two butter cookies. She stops calling out for me and drinks the coffee. She downs every drop, unwraps the two cookies, and finishes them too. In that noisy, hot, pungent tearoom, she eats and drinks with just enough of her own noise. I wash cups, rinse the cleaning cloth, and sort the receipts. I peek into the kitchen and line the trash can with a new bag. The woman soon approaches the counter. She pays with three bills and fixes her eyes on me. I know the look on her face. The look you get when you hide something slimy in your mouth. Unable to spit it out. I wait until the cherry-stained door slides open and the woman disappears. Once the door chime dies down, I throw the note away. I pocket the coin. I imagine hurling the coin onto the withered grass field. Maybe I imagine, maybe I remember. Seunggyu always carried his coin. A Seoul Olympics coin, large and heavy like the five hundred won coin. It had a mugunghwa flower on the head side; on the tail, the round-faced tiger Hodori. Head tilted and wearing a sangmo streamer hat. No, maybe tiger on heads, flower on tails. Seunggyu changed his mind about it every day. He held out the coin whenever he wanted. Then came the toss, and onlookers bobbed their heads as the coin flipped up and down. Seunggyu snatched it mid-air and pressed it against the back of his hand. It happened in a flash, too fast to see which side was up—heads or tails, flower or tiger. My earlobe burned. Blood pooled inside my cheek. I clutched my ringing ear in a daze while Seunggyu simply walked away. As if nothing had happened. He slapped me without hesitation as if kicking away a pebble. I got slapped in the toilet. I got slapped during the vaulting exercise in PE class. I got slapped in the cafeteria while scooping stir-fried mushrooms onto my tray. I got slapped by the incinerator while taking out the trash. Day in day out, always drawing a noisy crowd. Even as Seunggyu walked away, the noise would stay. With me at the center of it. Surrounded by people starting to tease, taunt, and humiliate me—it was a drag. Like Seunggyu, I simply walked away. I copied his move to escape the noise. Getting slapped in the face. The thing is, I got slapped around all the time and not just in the face. To reply was to play his game. That held up the hierarchy between us. From the pork cutlet diner? The granny seems to have more questions, but her daughter steers her to a table. Once seated, the granny forgets about me and groans about her knees. As I set down water cups and menus, I hear them whispering. Words slice through the noise. The one the dead boy used to. Keep quiet. At the police station, they gripped my arm all through the questioning. I bring the granny and her daughter their food, setting down the dishes one by one. I serve the bean sprout soup in a brass bowl, piping hot. I serve the sides—radish kimchi, pickled garlic, and braised quail eggs. The daughter scrutinizes me while the granny warms her hands on the hot water cup. I pretend not to notice and set down the rest. Soy sauce, napkins, and utensils. The kitchen bell rings. It alerts me of other dishes ready to be served. The worn-out bell makes a dull noise—more of a thunk than a ding. I overhear the daughter while heading to the kitchen. Seunggyu, whose parents ran a pork cutlet diner, died in an accident. A plausible accident. Two middle school boys were hanging around in the half-built building when one of them fell to his death. The dilapidated building had none of the necessary safety measures in place. Details emerged, turning the accident into a tragedy. It was the seventh floor of a building that was supposed to be ten stories. Plywood formwork for molding the concrete floor had been left behind. The boys mistook the plywood for a solid railing. One of them leaned against it and fell to his death when the plywood gave way. The wood had rotted by then, making it unclear who was to blame. The accident became an incident when information surfaced on how the two boys were linked. I was summoned to the police station, the counseling center, and the hospital. Judging by their faces, no one believed me. But they wanted to close the case as an unfortunate accident. My mom and teachers too. Mom bristled at the interrogators. Just boys being boys. Who says my son was bullied? How dare you pin that on him and treat him like a murderer? Eyes averted, never falling in line with anyone. I let my arms hang like an ape, and when anyone tapped on my shoulder, I stayed still and bowed my head to apologize. Noise led to rumors. They were either believed or dismissed. Every day filled with noise. I stayed silent, the only one who did nothing and said nothing. The woman came to see me two days in a row. Instead of calling my name or wailing like before, she simply watched. She stood across the street, hunched under the awning of a stationery store, and as soon as I emerged from the school gate, she followed me without a word. Like a huge lump on my back. By the time I reached home and walked up the stairs, she was gone. On the third day, it rained. The woman stood under the awning with a huge umbrella. It looked more like a garden parasol. I walked out the gate, straight to the stationery store. I stood by her under the awning. Being next to her or behind her seemed like the only way to avoid her relentless stare. She stayed still. The awning overhead bulged under the weight of water. The light spring rain had pooled into a puddle. I had no way to tell her the truth she wanted. Or the truth my mom and lawyer wanted. It grew stranger and stranger. Then there was the paramedic. He said he got Seunggyu into the ambulance and turned to you. Telling you to get in if you were a friend or family. Even then, you. Once they drove off, I took the long, narrow dirt path home. Like any other day, I brushed my teeth, washed up, and went to bed. The next day, Mom told me Seunggyu had died. When she heard the police were coming to ask questions, she immediately found a lawyer. Nothing happened. It rolled along the dirt with a jagged, scraping noise—skritch, skrit, skriii. I climbed down the stairs. Concrete dust hung in the air. Seunggyu lay near a pile of construction debris. I tried hard not to look that way. I used the flashlight on my phone to search the ground, and a shiny spot caught my eye. Close-up, I saw the round-faced tiger. Head tilted and grinning. No reply. She throws that look at me. The look you get when you hide something slimy in your mouth, unable to spit or swallow. I pretend not to hear. I make plenty of noise, clattering plates as I clear them away and rattling tables as I wipe them clean. She sits there with meat mashed on her plate like a grotesque display. The cook steps out of the kitchen, eyes the woman, and asks if I want him to call the cops. He grips his rolled-up apron and moves toward her. The cherry-stained door slides open, the rusty chime jangles, then silence. He clears the messy plate, fuming. Midopa closes ten minutes after the ticketing booth. When the ticketing employee drops by to say good night, I fill his thermos with leftover corn soup. Or sometimes bean sprout soup. The elderly employee is a distant relative of the cook. But when his boy died here, they had to compensate for his loss. You want him to die too? The cook stalked out of the kitchen and nearly slammed down a bowl of rice puffs on their table. He declared the ticketing employee had celebrated his thirtieth work anniversary last year and was rewarded with a watch. His son had only caught his leg under a rear tire. He was alive and well but never came near the terminal again. The customers turned sheepishly defensive. Words about people always matter. I step out of the wooden door, turn the OPEN sign around, and leave for the day. And outside too. I step only where streetlamps leave pools of light, and my mind wanders to the umbrella. And yet, leather is nothing but dead animal skin. I walk home. Across the dry grass field, down the long, narrow dirt path. Small fires had left burnt patches here and there. Flames had flared at dawn when no one was out, snuffed out naturally by the dirt. No damage aside from the charred blades of grass. I walk, inhaling hints of smoke. The woman trails a dozen steps behind me. I keep walking without looking back. Her pace quickens as I near the fork in the path. Back in the noisy space of Midopa, I could pretend not to hear, but not now. Right by the half-built building, in the dry silence of the field, I stop. I slouch over with my arms hanging like an ape. Eyes carefully averted. She reaches out to hold my hand. She apologizes for hounding me all those years. The woman turns and walks away. Just ordinary steps, as if everything that happened might be forgotten down the path. For the first time, I want to tell her the truth. Seunggyu and I were the last two left together that day. The usual gang that cheered whenever Seunggyu tossed his coin. Seunggyu climbed the stairs, beckoning me like a dog. Here, boy. It clinked against the concrete. He stomped on the rolling coin. And break your teeth too. Last chance. Heads or tails? I backstepped. I kept going until I reached the railing. Seunggyu tucked the coin away and loosened his shoulders, rolling them one at a time. He shook out his wrists. Then he held up a fist in the other hand as if stepping up to a punching machine. He wound up and launched a right hook. I crouched down. Seunggyu lost his balance and lurched forward. His legs flew up as he tripped over me. The rotted plywood crumbled against his weight. Without a second to scream, he plunged. The scenes stayed vivid in my mind. But memory kept shifting, drawing me back in. Forever summoning me to the rooftop. Those jagged edges rip my tongue, filling my mouth with blood. I stagger down the stairs with Seunggyu. Sometimes I get knocked off my feet and fall to the floor. Sometimes I catch Seunggyu by the legs as he topples over me. I hold fast, bearing his weight. And sometimes I stay crouched, pushing his legs over. Pushing hard. Imaginings were harsher than reality. Out of sheer desperation. The woman makes her way down the dirt path. She takes long, steady strides forward. To that end, I do nothing. In the end, I say nothing. Translated by Sunnie Chae. It was a four-and-a-half hour trip from Seogwipo to Seoul just to see my bias. Before long, I noticed the young students who seemed to be heading the same way as me. I finally let myself relax. There, much better. Green Hair set down a shopping bag in front of her. Maybe a roe deer with a butt as white as a mushroom, but never a roe deer that was white all over. Technically, the plushie was a chibi character with antlers attached so it was just weird to be arguing about the color of the fur. I swallowed the all-too-familiar sense of doubt and agreed enthusiastically. She took out her Yaho-stick and slipped in some fresh batteries. Connected to the central controller, the lightsticks in the venue glowed, blinking slowly from orange to green, sky blue to purple. I switched off my Yaho-stick for now and took out my Nashica binoculars from my bag. My seat was all the way in the left corner, in the last row of the second floor. The venue capacity was a mere thousand, but being so far from the stage made the space feel all the more massive. A Japanese tourist had left them behind along with a heap of albums. It was a common occurrence—foreign fans who bought multiple copies of the same album for the chance to enter a fansign only to end up tossing out the lot of them. On my first listen to Cresta, what struck me the most was their indecipherable lyrics. After hurrying to take off the lens cap, I raised the binoculars to my eyes and studied the stage. Adjusting the lens before the concert was a given if I was going to catch every second of the show, starting from the very first song. Not now. She gave both lenses a quick and thorough wipe. I think it just needed a good clean. Once I peeked through the lenses, the stage came into view with stunning clarity. I could see the faint smudges of footprints on the lustrous stage floor, and if I looked close enough, I just might be able to see what my bias was muttering, what he was thinking, and what he was keeping to himself. From the front pocket of my backpack, I took out a tangerine chocolate. The air conditioner was blasting hot air, as if someone had accidentally left it on the wrong setting, and the chocolate had long lost its shape. Still, it was the only thing I had on me that could express my thanks. Green Hair ripped open the wrapper and brought it to her mouth, squeezing out the chocolate with her fingers as if she were sucking on a piece of jelly. When I looked back at her after recapping my binoculars and putting away my ticket, I saw that some chocolate had ended up on her bangs. As I wet a tissue, she beamed. Maybe I should ask for highlights like this. When the black screen turned on again, Hobin appeared on my lock screen. I like him, too. So are we. The group could do without him in the tracks, but they needed him on that stage. In other words, he was a performer best watched on mute. And not because he was a good dancer. Jinil even printed it out to put in the back of his phone case so he could have it with him everywhere. Everyone knows this photo. Hobin and Jinil? Of course. Those two are my only joy in life. They make such a good couple. I hope we get good round one stuff today. Is this confirmed? What do you mean by round one? Is there an event happening today? Green Hair sank back into her seat, scratching her head. Anything can happen. Is that where Chu Cheolseon is sending our boys? Do the boys date in round two? Are they really making them do that? Laughable questions. The boys who remembered lived with the constant feeling of floating. Against a rainy scene, the subtitles rose to the top of the screen like undulating waves while the members took turns strutting to the front of the stage. There were also some members in shorts and suspenders. Were they going for the pageboy concept? A story about the host of a hotel that sits atop the last mountain peak on Earth. A hotel setting? I sucked in a breath. Walking on white clouds, every day I wait for you, let the blue-mint leaf surf the waves, welcome, welcome drink. A chill dance song with unusually catchy lyrics and a melancholy melody. I gently eased my temples as Hobin yelled the lyrics of the hook, which included, of all things, a term I heard too often at work. Simply put, the concept for this second full-length album was a hopeless apocalypse. Were our boys really going up the mountains? I mean, seriously? The two-month long monsoon ended just yesterday and the country was scrambling to restore areas that had seen a lot of flood damage. What was all this about torrential rains and deluges? I managed to hold up my binoculars throughout the first half of the show, but when my arms went numb and my wrists started to ache, I set them down more frequently, which made a rustling sound. The show started at seven and ended later than expected. Before I got the chance to properly say bye to Green Hair, I was swept into the crowd and pushed out of the concert hall. My buzzing heart was finally starting to settle, and the weight of my body made me want to flop down in the middle of the street. After my leave was approved last minute, I scurried to buy a re-sale ticket, booked a flight bound for Gimpo Airport and found a place near the concert venue to put up for the night. There were days when I wondered if I was living a busier life than the Cresta boys, and the past couple of days had been like that. On the way to the subway station, trudging one heavy foot after the other, I bumped into Green Hair again. I was too busy looking at my bias. The air was damp enough to breathe through gills, but my mouth was parched and I was in no mood to talk. As we passed a small Mexican restaurant selling draft beer, Green Hair spoke again. It was no question really when all I wanted to do at that moment was pour beer down my throat. Unlike our seats at the concert, we were lucky enough to find seats by the window and ordered a burrito bowl with a side of nachos. My hunger had kicked in after a whiff of food. Green Hair downed a pint of beer in one shot. School hair policies are rather lax these days. As we talked, I gathered she was likely a decade younger than me. When a short silence fell over us, I blurted out a boring question. To one that every fan would surely want to discuss. Did you enjoy the new album? His calves were so pretty. On top of that, the suspenders and beret! Well, I dunno. I guess the album came out pretty well. Everything has been planned out since their debut. Not to mention the whole Great Flood concept. I mean, they did forget about them for a while and this second album barely got released. There were floods everywhere, things got washed away. The new vacation house that my aunt built was swept up, too—it was chaos everywhere. Like a fingerprint or something. Can I really stan this group? Is it okay to consume their music and content? I used to wonder. The climate crisis is a hot topic, so maybe they started talking about it too. Probably thought of it as a trend. As trends? Look at the people who collect tote bags and tumblers. I mean, Chu Cheolseon named them Cresta because he was into hiking back then. Hobin came on stage wearing a backpack with a ml bottle of water tucked into the side pocket, while Steve, the rapper, swung around a hiking stick with a paisley handkerchief tied around it. Jinil, who had the most difficult dance moves, was put in a rash guard. That ignorant asshole is to blame, not our boys. Our boys are staying out of trouble, too. What else can we do, anyway? After Green Hair and I finished three beers each and left half of our food untouched, we stepped back out into the sticky night. I felt bloated. Trying to dodge the smokers coming from the restaurant entrance, we scurried down a few blocks and came upon a convenience store. A bug zapper buzzed in staccato somewhere. I booked a room for the night, you should come and get some shut eye. Because walking into the hotel lobby at this late hour felt too much like starting my night shift. That night. All I could remember was the feeling of someone grabbing my arm and raising it, someone slipping a pair of slippers onto my feet, and the afterimage of billowing white smoke. Welcome, welcome drink. The room barely had enough space for just one double bed, much less an extra bed. I went over to the phone beside the bed and picked up the receiver. Those who were willing to pay extra for a change of rooms were just as troublesome to deal with. This is way wider than our concert seats put together! In any case, we were both going to check out early the next morning, which left us with only a few hours of sleep after washing up. I opened the closet by the toilet and pulled out a bathrobe. You can wear this to sleep. I pulled out my phone and went on Twitter to look at showcase photos taken by fansites. I was always in awe at how quickly the fansites worked. Maybe Green Hair was right. Anything other than our present joy was not our problem to worry about. This became clear once I looked back on why I started stanning the group. While I was retweeting every picture on my timeline and saving the photos I liked into my gallery, Green Hair stepped out of the bathroom. She approached me, drying her hair with a towel. He was in a chestnut brown beret, mint shorts, and white knee socks. I zoomed in with my thumb and index, filling the screen with his face, which was shining alongside the blue pearl under his eye and his gem-encrusted in-ear monitor. The excessive glimmer of the photo made it look like there were tears pooling in his round doe eyes. Green Hair gave a languid sigh. Promise me. Give me your pinky. You better keep that promise. I plucked out two strands of gray hair sprouting from the edge of my part and cleared the seaweed-coloured hair clinging to the floor. Once I was in the shower booth, I turned the water on full blast. Was I too serious? I wondered. Say something out loud enough times and it becomes a habit. Just like how our pessimism endures as fingerprints do. While I showered, I worried that Green Hair had already left the room without saying a word. After letting the cold water wash away the heat clinging to my body, I matched the water to my temperature and stood under the shower for a long time. When I came out in my robe, Green Hair was already asleep, clutching her phone in one hand. I slipped under the blanket, careful not to wake her. With my back to her, I lay on my side and lowered the brightness on my phone. The song about the host of the last hotel in the world? I sat up, my heart racing. Did that mean he would receive royalties? While you listen to our songs. For a while, I lay in bed, staring blankly at the orange-flushed ceiling before returning to the messenger app. For 7, won a month, I could receive private messages from any member of my choice. It was an option that could be changed at any time. This was enough for me. To enter my settings and change my nickname whenever I wanted. To pick and save the images I liked, to pull up and admire at will. Though the both of us might be holding our phones, there was no need to take pictures of me, no need to share the discomfort of body heat or sticky bodily fluids, no need to spread viruses like high-risk HPV. This was something I could walk away from when I wanted. And therefore, it was sweeter, safer. The most perfect and comfortable distance away. From the front pocket of my backpack, I took out my AirPods and slipped them in. I opened my music app, set the second full-length album on repeat, and hit the play button. How many times would I listen to this album? After letting go of those ambitions, I only listened to their music when I wanted to, no matter how much my bias whined. I wanted everything that went into stanning my bias to be things that I enjoyed. At the concert venue, Green Hair had given me a look. She had the eyes of someone who was focused on what she loved and fastidiously chasing after it. Why write about idols though? Was it because people thought of their personalities and actions as inventions? And that idols were all putting on a show? Seonsaengnim, this is pure literature! Did something like that really exist? Fiction that featured the kid I loved most and the kid I loved second most? Was that why she could so easily sigh about wanting to die? Because there was a world where her bias and her bias wrecker lived in the way she imagined them? Because she was creating that world? Through the slightly parted jacquard curtains, the sun was spilling onto Green Hair, sitting at the vanity. What was she writing so early in the morning? I found my phone and checked the time. We had two bowls of buckwheat noodles from a Japanese fusion stall at the food court and took the escalator down a floor. The second basement, which was linked to the subway station, was lined with shops selling accessories, stationery, and casual clothing. I, too, gasped once I saw the T-shirt on the faceless white dummy. Before we knew it, we were already walking toward it. A sky-blue T-shirt, oversized. Printed on it were waves crashing upon a vast beach, a surfboard with a hibiscus painted on, and a red Ferrari. The both of us recognised it at once. We went into the store and felt the fabric of the T-shirt. Sturdy, yet thin and soft. I owe you for yesterday. We looked for the fitting room, thinking we might as well change now. I took off the neat yet boring shirt that I wore to work. Just as I was about to pull the new shirt over my head, I paused. How had my bias and my bias wrecker ended up in shirts bearing this particular phrase? Besides, with my backpack on, the words would be covered up, and after that, I could always just wear it as pyjamas. As we stood in front of the subway screen door, Green Hair took my arm and pointed at our reflection. I guess I wanted to feel glad. The water would rise, turning mountain peaks into islands. I thought about Jinil in the music video, standing alone, steeped in a never-ending wait for a visitor. I thought of the lyrics written by my bias. When I searched up her account, I saw that she had a white roe deer profile pic and twenty-two followers. Underneath the picture was a link to some website, P-something dot com, alongside a couple of hashtags like Cresta and Hobil. The nickname on the account was Shujin. Was her real name Juin or Sujin? I hit the follow button. It was only then that I remembered my username on the account that I used only for following and retweeting. The day I quit my job at the Myeongdong hotel despite having nowhere else to go was the day I created my stan account. The same unni who had found me huddled in the corridor, slung my arm over her shoulder, carried me out, and later returned to clean up the smoky room. The steamed bun she handed me was warm and fluffy, just like the white butt of a small animal. Would we ever see each other again? How did my bias look in the world Shujin had made? Was he smiling? Or crying? The train heading for the Express Bus Terminal arrived first. I stared vacantly as Shujin got on. Before I could finish reading the white sentence teetering on the edge of the waves, Shujin turned around and waved goodbye. On sunny afternoons, when the child woke from his nap, Ms. P would take him by the hand and head outside. The neighborhood, which was filled with luxury condos, had a nice playground in the middle of the complex, but Ms. P always walked to the nearby park just beyond. As she neared the park, holding the hand of this boy, this five-year-old with a bowl haircut and big monolid eyes, she felt again the pure joy these moments gave her. In the center of the park, there was an open area with a manicured lawn where children could run and play. P spread out her mat on the edge of the grass and sat down with the boy. Nearby, young women had also brought their children to the park and were chatting in small groups or watching their children play. P exchanged polite nods with them but kept to herself. Once he dashed off, she took a book from her small canvas bag and began to read. Sometimes she would stop reading to watch the boy. The children played well together. P would fold down the corner of the page and go to him. P reprimanded the child. From the moment she realized she had an eye for art, she had hoped to work in France. She had actually gone to Paris during high school and studied art history at a college there. However, weary from years of living abroad, she returned to Korea as soon as she finished graduate school. Her intention was to stay with her parents for about six months to recuperate and then leave again. Yet, somehow, nine months later, she found herself walking down the aisle in a wedding dress. He adores me. I was so shocked! But was it hard raising him? No, no, it was pure joy. Her mother kept her word. Her thick, glossy hair had attractive curls that fell over her shoulders, her skin had a vibrant glow, and her limbs were long and slender. Around the beginning of spring that year, she secured a job at an art gallery—even though it was just an internship—and hired a nanny, Ms. P, to take over caring for the boy. Sometimes, those listening asked about the nanny. She used to be a substitute teacher. P had taught history—sometimes social studies, sometimes geography—for twenty long years, and she loved her job. Thankfully, there were many schools that needed substitute teachers, and until last year, Ms. P was able to move from school to school, teaching history—sometimes social studies, sometimes geography—to middle and high school students. However, after filling in for a female teacher on maternity leave last spring, no schools had shown any interest in hiring her. When she was finally forced to accept that she would never stand in front of a classroom as a substitute teacher again, Ms. And whenever someone begged on the subway, she never turned them away. For some reason, he felt a mix of sympathy, pity, and even a little guilt that Ms. How could I stay on? That would be shameless of me. As these memories floated through her mind, she glanced around the room—the lilies in the vase on the coffee table, the geometric patterns on the curtains covering the balcony window, and the glass cabinet in the kitchen filled with decorative tea sets. She also took in the family—the handsome, polite young father, the lovely, elegant young mother, and the cute, intelligent-looking child. Perhaps at that moment, Ms. P thought of her own home with its modest wallpaper, synthetic fiber curtains, and narrow bed. She imagined herself eating alone, getting dressed alone, and sleeping alone. But these thoughts lasted only a moment, so brief she hardly registered them. Instead, her mind quickly filled with thoughts of her desk—a huge mahogany desk. It was actually a dining table, but Ms. P used it as a desk. It was the most expensive and beautiful thing she owned. P repeated the word in her mind. Then she straightened her back. Around two in the afternoon, on her way to work, she would stop by the daycare to pick up the boy and bring him home, staying with him until one of the parents returned. Frankly speaking, Ms. P contributed nothing to the dinner table. The weekend helper made all the side dishes, and the mother sometimes the father cooked after work. So, Ms. On her first day picking up the boy from daycare, he insisted on staying until his mother came for him and ended up crying. This happened several times. Each time, Ms. Eventually, the boy would hold Ms. While the child took a nap, Ms. P took out a book from her small canvas bag, along with some food she had packed. When Ms. But Ms. P never turned on the TV or radio, used the phone, or even touched a bottle of pills. After their stroll in the park, the boy usually played with his toys, but sometimes asked Ms. P to read him a book. When she read aloud, he would repeat after her in a small voice. Watching him, Ms. Because the children run and play. Why did that song come to mind? She turned to look out the window. From the apartment, she saw the bridge that crossed the Han River, the rows of apartment complexes beyond that, and a giant Ferris wheel spinning in the distance. Suddenly, Ms. She turned back to look at the cute, intelligent little boy who was repeating after her. She patted his head affectionately. One day, the boy came holding a large sketchbook and crayons. P said with a gentle smile, taking the sketchbook and crayons from him. P felt a little confused. What did a soccer ball look like? How were you supposed to draw a basketball? And what about a baseball? She tried to focus on all the different balls floating in her mind. That night, on her way home, Ms. P stopped by a store and spent a long time looking at soccer balls, basketballs, baseballs, golf balls, rugby balls, and beach balls. At home, she copied each kind into a small notebook and practiced drawing them over and over again. The next day, she studied different types of flowers, then different colors, and then different cars. Sitting at her large desk, which was actually a dining table, in the corner of her small room, she felt overwhelming happiness as she organized these things. But soon she realized that such thoughts were blasphemous. She reminded herself to be thankful for each day. It rained almost every day, and the air was muggy. Instead, she wore a light cotton blouse with sleeves that came just above her wrists. The day before, his parents had a big fight. They had been discussing their summer vacation. What would happen to him? What if their fight affected him negatively? Would he be able to forget his mother holding him while sobbing? What if this memory became buried deep in his heart? P thought of the delinquents she had taught. Where were they now? Their raspy voices. But when she arrived at the apartment and saw the mother lying in bed, in her pajamas with her luxuriant hair disheveled, Ms. She went to her and asked if there was anything she could do. The mother shook her head and spoke in a choked voice. P shook her head. I know it must be hard for him too, but still. P felt a complicated emotion that was hard to describe and struggled to suppress it. But not everything goes according to theory. Why do some women grow old without marrying or having children? P had supported her brother through college, and she had given him a significant portion of her savings when he got married and started his auto repair shop. However, she had not seen or spoken to him and his wife for several years. P, she had already forgotten this conversation with her husband. Just when they thought they were on solid ground, a problem arose. A Romanian artist announced he no longer wanted to send his work to the exhibition. To make matters worse, several other Eastern European artists wished to withdraw as well. The mother had no choice but to call Ms. P and explain the situation. As Ms. P recalled a student from her days as a substitute teacher who always got confused as to whether Portugal was in Eastern Europe or not, and she laughed. That evening, Ms. P took out the soybean sprouts and eggs from the fridge and taught the boy how to trim the sprouts. The boy sang, sloppily trimming the bean sprouts, while she mixed the eggs, chopped the scallions and carrots, and made an omelet. Afterward, she cleaned up his mess and made bean sprout soup. Other side dishes were already prepared. A short while later, Ms. P and the child sat at the table and had dinner. It was the first time she had eaten there. She patiently waited until the boy finished feeding himself. After dinner, she washed the dishes and bathed the child. When it was time for him to go to sleep, she sat next to the bed and read him a story. P pulled the blanket up to his neck. P sat on the living room sofa where she usually sat when the child napped. But tonight, she felt uneasy. She wanted to wake the child. At the same time, she felt like an intruder in an empty house, doing something very wrong. In the end, Ms. P turned on all the lights in the apartment—the living room, kitchen, and even the empty rooms—before she sat back down on the sofa. She was afraid. That night, Ms. P went home, lay down on her small bed, and then suddenly sat up. She knelt by the window and prayed. After that, the couple often failed to follow their rule of coming home before sunset to be with the child. On nights when they returned late, Ms. P would have dinner with the boy, help him brush his teeth, and inspect his mouth. She would change him into pajamas, tuck him into bed, and read him a story. She cared for him more diligently than ever. The couple offered to pay Ms. P extra for overtime, but she refused. P went to the kitchen. She hesitated, but then opened the cabinet. P took out her favorite teacup, the one with a delicate little bird painted on it. She put it back, then took it out again. She poured hot water into it, got a purple tea bag from the tea box, unwrapped it, and placed it in the cup. After a while, she removed the tea bag, threw it in the trash, and walked into the living room. She carefully placed the teacup on the coffee table and this time turned off all the lights in the apartment—the living room, kitchen, and empty rooms—leaving only the decorative lamp on in the living room. She sat on the sofa, pulled out the book she had brought, and began to read. Please, consider this your home. For the first time, Ms. Several days later, Ms. P opened the door to the study and went inside. She hesitated a little before taking a book from the shelf. She no longer needed to bring along a book in her small bag. There were plenty of books to read in that home. How would one describe that fall? Six years later, a group of well-dressed women were having lunch and chatting in a restaurant with a small porch. They had just begun to open up, sharing their struggles and bonding with each other. She wondered why they had to talk about such things on a day when sunlight bathed the streets and the leaves rustled in vibrant colors. Yet, as she listened, that fall suddenly came to mind. The first time she recalled that period was three years ago in the summer. Since then, that fall had often crossed her mind, whether she wanted it to or not. Many things happened that season, as if they had all been orchestrated. But did they ever have a chance to intervene? Her thoughts naturally turned to Ms. P, who had cared for her family and mother-in-law. Perhaps she had always wanted to think about Ms. She believed that autumn was the most difficult time of her life. Every time an unforeseen hardship invaded her life, she felt cursed, but in this case, who was cursing whom? Now it was her turn to speak. But she quickly realized the other women were more shocked. They had never wanted to hear such things. Yet they recovered quickly. Someone sighed in admiration. The women laughed heartily, drawing the attention of others in the restaurant. Her mother-in-law had passed away last year. She cleared her throat. P ever had the chance to talk about that period, what would she have said? They were so grateful. They never forgot a kindness. P would probably never have the opportunity to share that story, because no one is interested in her past. Even after many years, Ms. One morning, much later, when Ms. P was about the same age as the old woman had been, she was washing her face when she looked in the bathroom mirror and became lost in thought. It was then that she decided to erase the old woman from her memory. But this was far into the future. That fall, however, Ms. P arrived early every morning to help the couple get to work. She did the shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and took care of the boy and the elderly woman. Sometimes, she took them for walks or to the hospital. After the couple left for work, Ms. P in the face while wearing the ring, and it was never taken out of the jewelry box again. Sometimes the elderly woman got angry at Ms. Thank you so much. The young couple, floundering with fear and sadness, gradually found their balance again with Ms. By the weekend, Ms. P was exhausted. Her back ached, and her shoulders throbbed so much every time she lifted her arms that she needed to apply pain relief patches. Luckily, the child liked the smell of the patches. Just by seeing the mess in the apartment on Monday, Ms. P could tell what kind of weekend the family had. So, one Saturday afternoon, when the father called, sounding completely defeated and anguished, Ms. P felt a deep sense of relief. When she arrived, the father looked half-crazed, and the mother—Ms. P was shocked by her appearance—had a puffy face, messy hair held back by a headband, and was still in her nightgown. The old woman was locked in her room. The elderly woman burst into tears upon seeing Ms. P, saying she wanted to go home. P told the father to clean the living room while she bathed the elderly woman and the boy. She told the mother to wash her face, brush her hair, and get changed. The mother came back shortly after, dressed in a knit shirt and slacks, and asked Ms. P what she should do next. She did as she was told. P first bathed the child, dressed him, and sent him to his mother. Then she helped the elderly woman bathe, took out a green sweater and skirt from the closet, and dressed her—later on, the father would recall how his mother had looked like a Christmas tree that day—not forgetting her pearl necklace and earrings. After a day filled with intense emotions, the elderly woman ate a large helping of the meal Ms. P prepared and went to bed early. P had dinner with the boy and his parents for the first time. P said, helping the boy eat. The boy sat next to her, practically hanging onto her shoulder. Normally, she would have insisted the child eat on his own, even if it took a long time, but that day she spooned the food into his mouth. P reassured him. What will we do then? Yet, she felt she had to give the young mother some kind of response. Just look at the boy. Did you hear, Ms. People who worked at our company factory died. But the father kept talking. What happened to Mother? The boy, seeing his father cry, began to cry too, and soon the mother joined in. It was as if she had expected this moment, or felt it was her duty to resolve the situation, and she calmly comforted each one of them. Nothing bad is going to happen. P looked after them until they stopped crying. After they finally finished their meal, she cleaned the table and did the dishes. She took out the teacups painted with a delicate bird and heated three cups of milk, making one cup of tea for herself. They all sat together at the coffee table and drank. P stayed at the apartment until the family went to bed. For the next two months, Ms. P went to their home every single day without fail. The couple tried to hire a professional caregiver, but Ms. One Friday night near the end of fall, as Ms. Please get some rest. Later, Ms. And indeed, unless something special came up, the family visited her every Sunday until she passed away. Later, much later, Ms. With the mother-in-law gone, Ms. P finally had her weekends to herself. Nothing bad will happen. P muttered these things to herself, almost as if she were praying, as she applied pain relief patches to her shoulders and back. There were still many tasks Ms. P did for the family. She did the shopping and cooking, ate dinner with the boy, and read books by the light of a small lamp while sipping tea after he went to bed. The exhibition was a huge hit. There were even pictures of the mother, smiling confidently at the camera. Just as Ms. P had said, nothing bad happened. Though not as often as before, the couple now managed to have dinner with the boy more often than not. As Christmas approached, the couple decided to make up for the summer vacation they had missed and flew to a small island in Southeast Asia with their boy for a few days. For the first time in a while, Ms. P also had a long break. She planned to go on a trip as well, but ended up going nowhere. It snowed a lot that winter. Across from Ms. P sat a couple in their early forties, having tea and sharing a fruit tart with a girl who seemed to be their daughter. The girl checked her phone every now and then, but also laughed, complained, or talked at length to her parents. P watched them for a while. How long did she watch them? Suddenly, the girl looked up, and their eyes met. Having left her cell phone at home, she had to look for a payphone. She walked over five blocks, and her socks became soaked and the ends of her hair froze from the snow, but she finally found a payphone. At last, when winter ended, Ms. P resumed her walks. She asked the boy if he was happy, and he said he was, holding her hand tightly. In the park, Ms. As always, she read her book, watched the child, and taught him what was appropriate and what was not. The family hired a new helper for weekend housework, giving the mother more free time, so Ms. P no longer needed to cook or clean. Occasionally, she stayed late when both parents were delayed, but that was rare. She believed her life had entered a new phase of stability. The couple also felt their lives had entered a new phase. The family dined out often and visited the nursing home on Sundays. One day, when the mother punched in the door code and entered the apartment, she was struck by a strange feeling. Why does Ms. P always leave only the small lamp on? Why does she keep the apartment so dark? She watched as Ms. P greeted her, folded the corner of the page, and put the book back on the shelf. P use a bookmark? It was hard to believe that she had seen this scene many times before. After Ms. P left, she looked at the teacup left in the sink—the teacup with a delicate little bird painted on it. The set was from England and her favorite. She had inquired at the department store several times, waiting two months for it. It had been worth the wait. That night, she told her husband they should enroll their child in full-day daycare. A few months later, the father got promoted, and the mother became a permanent staff member at the museum. Everything was perfect, and nothing was wrong. Truly, nothing bad had happened. The night she was let go, Ms. P lay in bed, recalling the night view from their apartment. She had enjoyed the pleasant autumn breeze while watching the bridge and its lights across the dark river, the procession of car lights, and the giant Ferris wheel in the distance. She had wondered: What would happen if all those lights went out? Had she been wrong? She thought about the wrong choices, the misguided thoughts, the futile hopes, the resignation, and the losses that marked her life. It had always been that way. So what was it then? There were times she wanted to cling to something. She felt that life—her life—was a series of struggles and prayers. A prayer not to pray anymore. Please help me not to make another foolish decision. She had wished desperately that she would stop praying. Back when she was young, she should have continued studying for the exam to become a full-time teacher. She thought of her parents, her incompetent parents who had depended utterly on her, yet whom she had loved dearly. They had a child, too, but she had never seen him. She had been happy once, too. There had been times when she had loved and been loved. Times she thought would never end. Yet she believed that someday, a small event would resolve all the wrongs. P knew it was a lie. But what did it matter if it was a lie? For them, nothing bad would ever happen. That adorable boy would grow up well, loved by his parents. How smart and wonderful he would become! Maybe one day, he would become a dashing teenager and talk about her. The young, elegant, cultured couple might have once been her students in history—maybe social studies or geography. P knew that was a stretch. Still, she hoped the children she had taught were growing up somewhere, elegant and in good health, living in tall, clean towers, driving nice cars, speaking with refinement, and holding important roles in society. Someday, all the wrongs will be made right, like one pull on a string that would untangle the knot. P thought of these things as she closed her eyes. Falling asleep was always easier than she expected. Translated by Janet Hong. Something in my ear clanged open and shut every time I swallowed. The sound continued even when I chewed. In the early hours, I rubbed my ear in my sleep. In the morning, I could sense my left auricle and the heat inside my ear. When I walked, my body seemed to list to the side. I chanted it like a spell. Nothing outside of my ear concerned me. A told me she wanted a slightly different version of me. Just a slight change. I told her, You change first. What did she say then? Maybe she said, Okay, I will. Or maybe she said, Why should I? She squirted it onto scrambled eggs, ddeokgalbi, salad, and boiled potatoes. She spent four months at this house. It filled the spring. My you and your me. We also had this conversation. We were sitting at the foot of the bed. What am I to you? And what are you to me? The light was off in the room, but we could see everything there was to see. It seemed like our hands and feet were similar even if they were a different size. Perhaps we were brother and sister in a previous life. Or if not, the inner organs of sperm whales. You the heart, and I the liver. I was sitting in the examination chair with my head braced against the headrest. An enlarged image of my ear canal was visible on the monitor facing me. If you put water in flour and knead it and put water in and knead it again, what does it become? Gooey dough, I answered. Yes, like earwax. The doctor began scraping and removing the buildup, and inside my ear, the noise was terrific. I recoiled and winced. At some point a nurse appeared. She looked to be past middle age, her hair gray with a few brown strands. She was wearing a purple cardigan. How is it? Is the sound still muffled? I tried a few vocalizations. I rose from the examination chair, setting my feet on the tiled floor and standing up. My back was damp. I tried rotating my head and walking on the spot to test if my head was heavy, or if my body was leaning to one side. I also tried clicking my teeth together a couple of times to find out if the sound was still ringing on the inside. You have some inflammation of the eardrum. The doctor proceeded with his explanation after showing an image of my eardrum next to a normal one on the screen. Mine was a little thicker and redder. Take the medication and come back on Friday, the doctor said. The nurse beside me said it was time to go. I paid for my consultation, pushed open the glass door and left the clinic. The hot stuffy air in the hallway wafted against my face. It was bright and spacious. The light coming from the ceiling fixtures was neither too blue nor too yellow. The pharmacist went by the name of Yang Yu-jin. She stood there wearing a plastic name badge with her name on it. Yang Yu-jin was always alone behind the counter. Was she a few years younger, or my age exactly? Perhaps she was 5 or 8 centimeters taller than me. Generally speaking, she was lanky and pale. Her head appeared to be big and solid. She always widened her eyes a little when she assisted me. Her eyes were both fierce and affable. I wonder why she left an impression on me. This person, and that one, making one kind of impression or another, it tired me out. Yes, I replied. She lined up fifteen little sachets across the counter with three pills in each: a painkiller, an antibiotic, and a pill for stomach ailments. Yes, I said, turning and walking out. Just as I was approaching the glass door, Yang Yu-jin called out to me and I stopped. Take this, she said, proffering a warm bottle of Ssanghwatang. A buried her face in her hands. You do. How can something stop existing? Take this. I asked. Take it and put it on. A fastened around my neck what had just been around hers. I bent my head forward slightly. I felt the cold, light weight of the chain and the brush of her fingers on the back of my neck. A and I walked together toward the only mirror in the house. She went first, and I followed behind. The sound of our steps on the wooden floor was somehow magnified. We stopped in front of the mirror and looked. My neck and the nape of my neck, my face and hair, my wrinkles and blemishes. It suited me just as A had predicted. She rested her whole palm on the nape of my neck. Now if something amusing happens, who can I tell? And who can I talk to about something sad and stressful? I looked in the mirror at the image of her crying. I stood there awkwardly with my arms hanging down. Whenever I made eye contact with myself in the mirror, I felt distressed. Shall we go somewhere? I asked her. How about going to the supermarket, or a bookshop? We could buy something new. Even just talking about something new would distract us. It was hot and sweet. I lived in a remote place, far from anywhere else. I had to walk along a dirt path or a narrow two-lane street. I always wanted to be farther away. It was difficult, even impossible, to just be mentally distant. I needed to physically distance myself from everyone and everything. No one was curious about my move; neither did they try to dissuade me. A was amused. Do people really reside there? At that time, A used the polite language form to address me. I will attempt it myself. I used the polite form, too. Either they nattered on, or they kept their mouths shut, expressionless, the whole time they were facing you. A was someone who both spoke and kept quiet in moderation. I did not feel any discomfort with the way she talked or with the timing of her silences. She was the only person who asked about my new place.

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