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It is nearly dawn when I arrive at the hotel, eyes still thick with sleep, lips half-frozen from the morning chill.
This place is smaller than the Liber, but fancier, with a distant vintage vibe. I take in the vast, overdone lobby while I wait, wondering why anyone would invest that much thought into things like shapes and fabrics.
The receptionist turns to me with a timid smile. “Please be seated. Mr Jung will be with you shortly.”
She has a nervous energy about her, a textbook example of Choi Mu-jin’s prey people. I wish Tae-ju had just left the files with her and saved me the wait.
“Thank you,” I reply quietly.
From somewhere deeper within the building comes the muffled sound of music, spiked with voices and the soft clinking of glass.
I sink into the shiny, over-the-top couch in the lobby. I can’t resist closing my eyes as it molds into the shape of my body, the rich leather smell filling my lungs. I wonder what would happen if I just dozed off right here, under that monster of a chandelier and the prey-lady’s gaze.
I begin to think Tae-ju is doing this on purpose, just to rub it in: there's a party and you're not invited, high-school style. I realize I’m going to lose the fight against my heavy eyelids, so I scramble to my feet and head for the bathroom.
“Right around the corner, honey,” the prey lady says, waving her arm.
The bathroom is twice the size of my apartment, bright with lavish white lights. I splash cold water on my face, trying not to linger on the grim reflection that stares at me from the mirror. There is a loveseat in the corner of the room – this place is a deathtrap for drowsy teenagers – and I fight off the urge to lie down, reminding myself that Tae-ju might be coming to the lobby any minute.
But just as I'm about to head back, a blend of high-pitched voices and fast-approaching footsteps echoes in the hallway. Instinctively, I back away until I hit the far end of the room. I slip into the nearest cubicle, just seconds before they enter.
There are four of them – beautiful, doll-like creatures with glossy hair and ivory skin, all paint and glitter and soft metallic jingle that echoes their every move. My breath picks up a little as I take in the high heels and tight-fitting clothes, the sensual confidence carved into their every move.
I have seen some of them before, I realize: the tiny girl with big eyes and soft, dangling curls; the taller one with icy skin and a small, pouty mouth. The third one is new, a little older than the rest of them; she has a serene face and glass-ballerina vibes, like Queen Yeon-a, the figure skater.
They head straight for the loveseat and I realize something is wrong because Pouty’s shoulders are quivering with sobs, her eyes filling up with tears. She crumbles onto the seat and hides her face in her petite hands as she succumbs to the sobs. Curly crouches down beside her, stroking her satin hair with slow, reassuring movements.
The last girl, a curvy, voluptuous beauty, lights up a cigarette and leans back against the bathroom wall, shutting her eyes.
“Next time I decide to do two gigs in a row, someone remind me I ain’t eighteen anymore.”
She has a beautiful, raspy voice, one I’d be jealous of if things like that still mattered in my life. She breathes in and out a few times, then opens her eyes, finally registering her surroundings.
“What the fuck happened?” she demands, gesturing towards the sobbing girl.
Curly looks up at her, hand still tangled in Pouty’s hair.
“Choi Mu-jin,” she whispers.
I feel the muscles tighten in my stomach.
I press my nose against the half-opened door of my cubicle, pushing it out further.
If one of them looked my way now, she could almost certainly see me. But all eyes are on Pouty, the sad quivering bundle of her.
“What happened?” Raspy demands in a low voice. “He hurt you or such?”
“N-no!” Pouty wails, her slender frame jerking with sobs.
Curly sighs. “Didn’t ask her to stay the night, ’s all.”
Pouty wipes her cheek with a trembling hand. “He always has before... I-I don’t know what I did w-wrong...”
“You did nothing wrong, sweets. It’s not your fault.”
“ ’Course it ain’t.” Raspy shakes her head, breathing out another puff of smoke. “He’s been totally checked out lately.”
She ditches the stub in the washbasin and rakes her purse for another cigarette. “You getting paid the same, though?”
“Y-yeah, I – …”
“And getting time off, the way I see things?”
Pouty shoots her a nasty look.
“Then what you getting so worked up about?”
Curly rolls her large, overpainted eyes. “She’s kinda been his favorite,” she sighs. “So what do you think’s up? Reckon there’s a girl?”
“Or a boy.”
Curly giggles. “My money’s on Tae-ju.”
“I think it’s the kid.”
It's the first time she ever speaks, the poised, serene girl that reminds me of Queen Yeon-a. Her voice is quiet and almost wary, like she's contemplating every word that she's about to say.
Raspy blinks at her, clearly perplexed. “What kid?”
“This girl that’s always around. Pale, kind of awkward... seventeen tops.”
“The scrawny thing with a black eye?”
My heart skips a beat.
“Eww – gross,” Curly makes a face. “That’s seriously fucked up, you know.”
Raspy snickers. “How old are you again?”
“Older than that.”
My pulse echoes so loudly in my ears I can't make out the words anymore. I rest my temple against the wooden doorframe, breathing fast.
This can't be happening.
There's no way they are talking about me - there's nothing to talk about.
Yeon-a’s voice slowly comes back, like a badly tuned radio.
“… yes, just south of Bongcheon.”
“What on Earth were you doing there?”
“Not the point.”
“Okay, whatever. So she gets in his car, big deal. They made out or some such?”
Yeon-a’s voice falters, but it doesn’t matter anymore because I remember.
I must’ve replayed it in my head a thousand times.
The raindrops scattered over the windshield, the charged silence that replaced the engine buzz.
The way he leaned in and the tobacco smell filled my lungs. The way his touch almost burned my ice-cold skin and my heart pounded, tripping, wondering, how long does it take to tuck back a strand of hair.
I’ve replayed it in my mind a thousand times and told myself it was nothing. A pity move, a guilt thing, a feeble attempt at consolation.
Yeon-a draws a deep breath.
“No, it’s… the way he looked at her, I guess. Like he was upset to let her go.”
And the overworn tape runs on: My icicles of hands drowned in his, stupidly scared, stupidly struggling, for all the good it did them. My eyes down in a foolish attempt to hide the dark shadows underneath. His voice, low and halfway menacing in the tiny space between us.
Straight to bed tonight. And eat something first.
I managed a cup of tea, and lied awake all night, the memory on endless replay.
I almost wish Yeon-a would go on now so that I could prolong the moment, sort of like a director’s cut to a favorite movie. But she just bites her lip and shrugs her shoulders, and the room sinks into uneasy silence.
I press my hand against my mouth, afraid they will hear my ragged breath.
Raspy is the first one to break the silence.
“Okay, so what. He’s got some kinky Daddy shit going on with her – who cares? Guys get weird with old age.”
Curly giggles, a jingle bell against the vast white walls. “You got that right.”
“He’s not old,” Pouty protests weakly.
“Whatever he is, this ain’t no business of yours.” Raspy’s voice is almost harsh now. “You need to snap out of it, lady. You know the rules: no attachments. No matter how much attention those assholes pay you, don’t ever mistake it for feelings.”
“She’s right, love,” Yeon-a says. “You know that, don’t you?”
Pouty nods, wiping her eyes.
“C’mon, girl. Enough already.” Curly’s bracelets jingle as she gently slaps Pouty’s butt with her tiny hand. “That’s all his paying you for – ain’t no reason to give him more than that.”
Pouty laughs shakily, leaning in for a hug, and it strikes me how sweet it is that they have each other.
I watch them slowly break out of the trance that had engulfed the room, buzzing around, yawning, adding color to their flawless faces with swift, skilled movements. I watch Pouty’s misery wiped away with a single overpriced Kleenex while Curly beams at her, See? Good as new!
After they’re gone, I count to a hundred before I push the door open, stumbling into the empty room. I wonder if Tae-ju is still waiting in the lobby, if he ever even showed up.
The mirror still glimmers with the memory of them, the air heavy with perfume and expensive booze. I lean against the basin and stare at my face in the mirror, pale as a corpse, wide-eyed.
I so didn’t see this one coming.
Somewhere between the fighting and the guns I've got used to the sweet flutter in my stomach that began to accompany all our encounters. Every time he speaks my name, his husky voice almost making it a different word. Every time his lips twitch and his eyes light up and I wonder if it has something to do with me.
Every time he's close enough to touch, even if we're not touching.
But it’s no more than a schoolgirl’s a dream, somewhat materialized in those lonely nights that I lie awake, running my fingers along the hollows and ridges of my bruised, seventeen-year-old body. I know it can never happen and that’s the bittersweet charm of it, keeping my vision pure, unmarred by reality. If it’s my dream, I can never disappoint him, and he can never hurt me.
Now the reality looms over my head, wild and unpredictable, and I can’t help wondering if I missed this somehow, squeezed in in the fine print of our Faustian deal.
Implied in the sweltering, breathless moments in the gym that I told myself were all business, no more than a means to an end.
I close my eyes and open them again, letting out a shaky breath.
Yeon-a could have been wrong about this. Imagined things that were not really there.
She also could have been exactly right.
And if one of these days, the fleeting moment lingers, the hands press harder and never pull back – if he gets too upset to let me go…
I can almost see the future unfold, like a part of that worn tape I haven’t watched before. I fight against the answering nausea, the weakness that swells between my thighs. Against the sickening revelation that I have no idea if this is what I want.
My father stares at me from the mirror, smiling and very much dead.
I stare back, thinking, does it make any difference?