they want. The only times I have ever seen one were at the Gagosian in New York, from a distance, and at the National Gallery in D.C. after waiting two torturous hours in line with a full bladder because Ruby wanted to see it.
“And don’t worry, Mr. Choi will be there too,” he said when he saw my face. He was referring to his mother’s driver, who has picked us up several times before and has always been very polite to me. I looked at him in utter exasperation, my handsome, confident, clueless boy, who thinks that his family’s elderly driver pottering about his national treasure of a house would be the source of any comfort.
I stood up. “I need to go back to my work,” I said. We were in the empty café downstairs because I don’t allow him in my actual studio. He hasn’t seen anything I’ve been working on in the year that I have been back in Korea.
“Can I come see?” he said. “It’s so ridiculous that you won’t show me.”
I shook my head and frowned.
“No, not now,” I said. “Besides, my studio mate is there working too and she will get so upset if anyone else comes in.”
This was a lie, as the girl who shared my studio left months ago for a new fellowship at another university. And even if she had still been here, she would have loved nothing more than a chance to gossip with a good-looking older guy with lots of questions. She had been so chatty while she was working—she usually worked on fluorescent reproductions of Silla Dynasty crowns and belts that required no thinking, apparently—that I had been on the verge of complaining to the department head when she told me she’d been offered the fellowship, which awarded ten million won more than what we got at our current university. She had bragged with intent to sting, but when I understood she’d be leaving immediately, I enveloped her in such a heartfelt hug that she was visibly discomfited.
“I will see you tomorrow,” I said to Hanbin firmly.
“I’ll pick you up at your apartment?” he asked. He knew I didn’t like him coming to the office-tel either. I don’t want him around the other girls, especially my roommate.
“No, that’s silly. Let’s just meet at Gyeongbokgung and you can pick me up there. Why would you come all the way down south? It’s a waste of time.”
Hanbin sighed and took my hand.
“You drive me nuts,” he said. “I must be a sick masochist, drawn to this.”
I don’t say anything because it must be true. He was that way with Ruby too, before me.
* * *
—
IN THE LIVING ROOM, my painfully plastic roommate, Kyuri, is watching her favorite drama. It’s clear from her makeup and hair that she hasn’t gone to sleep yet from the night before. In her lap, she’s caressing a red lambskin jumbo Chanel bag like it’s a puppy, while staring at the TV with bloodshot, unseeing eyes. This is odd behavior—usually she keeps her bags covered and enshrined in her closet, rarely taking them out unless there’s some pressing occasion.
“That’s pretty,” I say, eyeing the bag as I make myself a cup of coffee. “Was it another present?”
“Yeah, it’s from my gaming company CEO,” Kyuri says without taking her eyes off the TV. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Kyuri keeps a meticulous log of her presents and how much she sells them for, so that she doesn’t lose track of who gave her what. She has an arrangement with one of the luxury resale shops at the corner of Rodeo Drive in Apgujeong—they know she’ll hand the bags over to them completely new, and she knows she’s getting the best price in the neighborhood for them. And sometimes, when she has to see a client who’s been asking about his present, she’ll run and borrow a bag from the store for a night—they always have every kind in stock, the kinds that clients give their girls anyway. She tends to ask for the same exact one from all her men so that it’s less confusing to keep track of them, and she