a third-tier room salon, she will continue to work until either she kills herself or they throw her away like a used dishrag.
It still amazes me—the na?veté of the women of this country. Especially the wives. What, exactly, do they think their men do between the hours of 8 P.M. and midnight every weeknight? Who do they think keeps these tens of thousands of room salons flush with money? And even the ones that do know—they pretend to be blind to the fact that their husbands pick out a different girl to fuck every week. They pretend so deeply that they actually forget.
I glare at Miho, who is looking so concerned. She will definitely be one of those clueless bats when she gets married.
“Miho’s boyfriend is a real chaebol,” I say to Nami.
Her eyes widen a little in alarm, and then they lapse back into glaze. She doesn’t even ask which company his family owns.
“Why do you think he likes you?” I ask Miho. I am genuinely curious. Miho is pretty but not to the level of perfection you can achieve with surgery, and she has no family or money. But for some reason this boy from one of this country’s richest families is dating her. It’s a mystery.
“Why, what do you mean by that?” she says. But she smiles to let me know that she is not actually offended.
“I don’t know, sometimes I think I know men, and then I think I can’t understand them at all,” I say.
“Oh, by the way, I told him you are my friend from middle school and that you’re a flight attendant,” says Miho, looking apologetic. “Can you just say you don’t want to talk about work? I don’t want you to have to lie too much.”
“Why a flight attendant? That’s very specific.” Although, of course, one couldn’t possibly introduce me as a room salon girl. Miho is the only person who knows, apart from the girls I work with and the men who pay for me.
“Well, you have these weird hours and you’re so pretty…” She trails off. “I couldn’t really think of anything else that entails that kind of thing. But now that I think about it, it’s kind of an elaborate lie.” Miho looks distressed. “I mean, what if he asks you about your flight routes and favorite countries?” she says, working herself up. “He’s so well-traveled.”
I shrug. “I’m okay with flight attendant,” I say. “I’ll just change the subject if I don’t know the answer to something he asks.” There was a time after I left Miari but before I joined Ajax that I briefly toyed with the idea of really becoming a flight attendant. I even enrolled in one of those flight attendant academies at Gangnam Station for two weeks, learning “how to bend the knees, not the hips” and all that crap. But then I found out how much their salaries are—even the ones who go to Middle Eastern airlines and make double the domestic salaries—and I quit immediately. Then I started working at Ajax because, well, that’s all I know how to do, really—gaze at men adoringly and drink their liquor.
“Why don’t you say that you quit and you’re now trying to become an actress?” Nami says and then shuts her mouth quickly, like she did something wrong.
Miho claps her hands. “That’s perfect! Why didn’t I think of that?” She beams and looks at Nami.
“How about you, Nami, what do you do again?” she asks.
“Oh, that’s what I’m trying to do,” Nami says and giggles, without missing a beat. “We’re both desperate actresses!” I look at her. It’s true, she’s quicker than she lets on.
“Whatever you want, Miho,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Well, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, you know? So yeah, that would be great—you’re trying to become an actress.”
“Okay,” I say. “I don’t care.”
* * *
—
WHEN HANBIN FINALLY ARRIVES, it’s almost midnight and every table is full. People are not drunk yet, but they are shouting at each other happily.
He’s good-looking all right, and much taller than I imagined, and built