What You Never Know
by I-hyeon Jeong

HIS WIFE was like a roe deer whose leg had been cut off while alive. She writhed in pain, her entire body twisted. 

Sang-ho was envious. The right to be tortured, shaking as much as she wanted, the right to cry out their daughter's name through heavy sobs—his wife had that privilege. He didn't. He didn't dare mimic it. 

'I know how you feel, really. But there is a procedure to everything. Please just wait a little longer.' Pleading didn't work. 'I'm not useless. You know that. You think I'm just sitting here not doing anything? Please, just trust me. Just once, just this once.' Imploring didn't work either. 

That morning, she had shaken him awake. He was jolted out of light sleep. Nothing had changed. He must have been dreaming of a faint hope that he could almost grasp. Miserable and embarrassed, he slowly rubbed his eyes. Had she spent the whole night sitting next to the phone? Her eyes were steeped in fatigue and anxiety, shadows of mis­ery and pain crashing to the surface like waves. He could sense her des­perate will not to fall into the deep hole of despair. Sang-ho searched for his pack of cigarettes in the trousers he had flung to the floor the previous night. 

'Listen to me,' she said, looking straight into his eyes. She enunciated each word clearly. 'I can't trust the police anymore. They don't care about one small child who's gone missing. I guess that makes sense.' 

He broke a cigarette in half. He could already taste bitterness. 'So what do you want me to do?' 

'There has to be another way. We have to start looking for her today. To­gether. If we just leave it to the police I don't know what's going to happen.' 

'I told you to stop it!' he shouted. 'Of course I know that! Why do you insist on being ridiculous? What would we do? Stand in the middle of Seoul Station Plaza and ask anyone we see, “Have you seen our daughter?”' Sang-ho rose brusquely from the bed. 

Ok-yeong grabbed his arm. 'Is there something I don't know?' 

Her voice was sharp, as though her words could razor his chin. Every­thing in the room stood still for a moment. He looked away. 

'What? No, of course not,' he managed to retort. He thought he sounded unnerved. 

His wife's grip loosened, leaving a red mark on his arm. She sat down limply on the edge of the bed. 

'I've talked to the police about all of this,' he said, lowering his voice, attempting to be conciliatory. 'If we make too much of a fuss it might goad the arseholes who have her.' 

'How can you be so sure that it's . . . ' Ok-yeong paused; perhaps it was too difficult to utter the word, 'kidnapping'. 

Sang-ho burst out of the room, slamming the door in his wife's face. He heard her sobs but rushed away, pretending not to notice. He really was sorry, but he couldn't do anything. He just wanted to avoid her. Sang-ho didn't realize that Ok-yeong needed to heap her guilt on someone else, just as he did. 

The pre-dawn roads were empty. It was still early for rush hour and Gangnam Boulevard was quiet. He put his foot down and blazed through the Yeoksam Station intersection; the engine then sputtered, the RPM dropped instantly and the car stopped. Drivers behind him started to lay on the horn but his car wouldn't start. He was out of petrol. The red warning light must have been blinking for a while. He buried his face into the wheel, at a loss. What else had he neglected to see? What was it that he rushed towards, without noticing anything else? The cars behind began to swerve around him, one by one. Beleaguered, he was stranded in the middle of the street. 
At about ten in the morning the private investigator came to see him. Sang-ho had asked him to come to the office as he hadn't known where else would be safer. 

'You've come to work,' Yeong-gwang observed. He seemed at ease, as if he would have strolled in and made himself at home even if Sang-ho hadn't been there. Or maybe he would have hummed a waltz as he rifled through the cabinets and desk drawers. Sang-ho invited him to sit on the sofa. Yeong-gwang was straight-backed even when he sat down. Sang-ho was glad he had told his employees to come in later than usual. 

'What's happened?' asked Sang-ho. 'I couldn't get in touch with you yesterday.' 

'I was busy with a few things,' said Yeong-gwang, adding in a polite and business-like tone, 'That's why I've come to see you now.' 
Sang-ho instinctively understood that he was at a disadvantage. 

'Mr Kim,' Yeong-gwang said.

'Yes?'

'Is there something you always carry around with you?' 

Sang-ho nodded, at a loss. Strangely, at that moment, what popped into his head wasn't a square briefcase but a black golf bag. 

'Do you happen to know what's in your bag?' 

'What?'

'Oh, don't worry, this isn't a test.' 

Sang-ho wrapped his hand around a glass of water. He didn't have the energy to bat idle chatter back and forth. He couldn't understand what Yeong-gwang was getting at. Could he know the golf bag had only held a shirt with a damn crocodile logo on it, instead of the promised USB drive? 

'I see that you don't know off the top of your head. A lot of people are like that. They always carry something with them out of habit. They feel naked without it, but a lot of people don't actually know what's in their bags. You see that a lot, especially with people in my line of work. That's why I never carry anything with me.' He smiled curtly. 'Your wife must be very worried.' 

Sang-ho frowned. 

'I went to Galma-dong yesterday.' 

Galma 2-dong, Seo-gu, in Daejeon. Where his wife's family lived. The home of his elderly mother-in-law and his sister-in-law, who wasn't married and past forty.

'I don't always do this, but I wanted to confirm some things,' Yeong­gwang continued. 

Sang-ho didn't say anything. 

'I was going to take the KTX high-speed train there but changed my mind. I wanted to follow the same route your wife did on Sunday. I started off from Bangbae-dong. Your house is really close to the Banpo Interchange. Oh, of course, there are many different factors at play. When I went it was a weekday, and I'm sure we drove at different speeds.' 

'So what? Just tell me, don't beat around the bush. Is Yu-ji there?' 

'There's no trace of her at your in-laws'.' 

'What?' A hot flame burst up from Sang-ho's heart. Damn it. He didn't know what to do at this juncture so he shouted. 'Who told you to do some­thing useless like that? Something I didn't even ask you to do?' 

Yeong-gwang gazed at Sang-ho, who couldn't read anything in his un­blinking eyes. 

'I don't only do what I'm told, you see.' 

'What?'

'I have my own ways,' Yeong-gwang said calmly. 'Right now I'm gathering every strand of evidence. Until I can see some sort of clear outline.'
 
Their eyes met. Sang-ho looked away first. 'But there's no time . . . ' Sang-ho faltered. 'You know how desperate we are, how we feel. Why Daejeon?' 

'To meet your mother-in-law, among other things. I have to say, although she's not young, she's in fairly good health.' 

Even though he had been with Ok-yeong for over ten years, Sang-ho wasn't close to her family. When Yu-ji was a baby his mother-in-law had visited a few times a year and spent some time with them, but her visits almost stopped after Hye-seong moved in. When she did come for a rare visit she would hurry back when Sang-ho came home. They didn't have many opportunities to become close, and it didn't seem as though his wife really cared if they had a good relationship or not. Ok-yeong didn't even ask him to come along when the family got together in Daejon for his mother-in­law's birthday or for Ok-yeong's eldest sister and brother-in-law's visit from America. Sometimes he wondered if she didn't want him to go. 

He had asked her about it, and she made excuses: 'It's uncomfortable for you, because of the language barrier and everything.' 

Sang-ho was grateful. He still had unpleasant memories of his ex-wife mentioning her mother in every other sentence. Ok-yeong was different from Mi-suk in every way. 

'Your sister-in-law told me her mother doesn't know about this. That your wife asked her to keep it quiet. Thinking about her mother when she must be out of her mind with worry—she's very considerate. Your wife, I mean.' Yeong-gwang explained he had only said hello to her mother, and that her sister had confirmed that Ok-yeong had come on Sunday and left on Monday. 'She couldn't remember exactly when she had arrived and left. But then again, not many people remember trivial details like that. And it's been over a week.' 

Sang-ho's heart constricted without explanation. 

'But anyway,' Yeong-gwang said, changing the subject, 'that neighbour­hood has a real parking problem. I guess it's an issue no matter where you go, not only in Seoul. It was hard to find a spot even though it was in the middle of the day and on a weekday. Maybe because it's an old block of flats, or maybe there aren't enough spaces. As soon as I parked a guard came running up. He wrote down the building number I was visiting, and put a piece of paper on my windshield. Apparently if they don't check each car like that, people who live or work nearby park there on the sly. I guess that's inevitable because there isn't enough space, but it does seem a little uncharitable among neighbours, doesn't it?' 

'Well, that's just how things are these days,' Sang-ho murmured uncertainly. 

Yeong-gwang nodded. 'Right. That's just how things are. They have this log that records every visiting car. Of course, they're not that well organized like at your place; it's pretty basic. The guards just scribble down the make of the car and the licence plate.' He took out a notebook from his pocket and opened it. 'Your wife drives a white BMW 320i, licence plate 7279, right? I couldn't find any record of 7279, from February twenty-fourth to the twenty-fifth, or before or after that. The guards were perplexed, too. If she'd parked there overnight, it would be hard not to notice a nice car like that in that neighbourhood.' 

Sang-ho wanted to shut him up but Yeong-gwang was too quick. 

'One of the guards had been working at that particular building for seven years. He knew that the youngest daughter of the Chinese woman living in 801 was very rich, that she lived in Seoul. Until last spring was driving in a Sonata but from a certain point she started to arrive in a BMW. He said it must be true that her husband has a successful business.' 

Sang-ho coughed. 

'When your wife visits, he says he always gives her a good spot right in front of the guard booth, to make sure her expensive car doesn't get scratched. And he told me he was certain he didn't see her car on Sunday or Monday. The records match his recollection. So . . . where did she park?' Yeong-gwang asked, as if truly curious, lengthening the inflection of his voice. 

'She could have parked somewhere else, I guess,' Sang-ho said, wondering why he was searching for excuses. 'Or maybe she took the train or the bus.' 

'Your wife told me she'd driven there. And the guards at the Bangbae­dong villa said they saw the car leave. I guess she could have parked at the bus terminal to take the bus, or at Seoul Station and to take the train. But why would she go out of her way to do that?' 

It made Sang-ho nervous that a third party was telling him about his wife's movements, especially those he hadn't known about. That nervous­ness soon turned into annoyance and meant that he might not know about something important, which could make this situation worse. That vague thought made him feel as though his head would explode. 

'Of course, I can't be sure of anything right now,' Yeong-gwang said. 

Sang-ho looked away. 

'But I am curious. A question is like a small stone that disturbs the peaceful surface of water. Or, let me rephrase, like a stone that has the possibility of disturbing the peaceful surface.' 

'What's your point?' 

'I have a theory about this, up here.' Yeong-gwang pressed his pen to his temple. 'My investigation is still in the early stages so there are only a few lines that are definitively drawn, but I think my theory might have some weight. I have a request for you.' 

'For me?' 

'Yes.'

What the private investigator wanted was his wife's mobile-phone records. 

'Isn't this something I hired you to take care of ?' Sang-ho asked. 

Yeong-gwang lowered his voice. 'If I did it, it'd be illegal. It's confidential information.' He remained impassive, but to Sang-ho it seemed as though he were grinning. 'There's no point in risking everything for something that trivial.' 

Sang-ho either had to get the records himself or pay for the risk the in­vestigator would have to take. He reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. Thankfully he had brought along some large notes. He handed over the money and, trying hard not to appear hesitant, said, 'They would have planned for a long time before taking her. And in that process they would have done something suspicious.' 

'You are certain it's a kidnapping, then. Who are you talking about?' 

'If I knew I wouldn't be sitting here, would I? But . . . maybe it's someone who wants to get back at me.' 

'Get back at you?' 

'Well, when you're in business . . .' Sang-ho couldn't tell what he was trying to say, or whether this man understood what he was suggesting.
 
'So let me summarize what you're telling me. Yu-ji would have been kidnapped by someone who had been planning it for a long time. Someone who would have held a grudge against you. And there's a distinct possibility that it would be a business-related grudge. Is that right?' 

'Yes.'

'So then you'll have to give me a list of the people who are holding a grudge. You're the one who'd know best.' 

Sang-ho understood that he was stuck in a deep, narrow cave. What could he say? Where could he begin? His heart was heavy as he said goodbye to Yeong-gwang. His throat burned and his heart filled with despair. 

When they first met, Ok-yeong had been an instructor at the Chinese-language school Sang-ho attended. Several years previously, he'd begun working in the import-export business, travelling between Korea and China, but he could barely utter a word in Chinese. He'd enrolled in a basic conversation class at a large language school and gone once or twice before quitting, and this pattern continued. Evening classes were impossible because he went out drinking after work, and morning classes were inconvenient because he was hung over and could never get up early. 

This was why he didn't have high expectations when he'd signed up for an 8 p.m. class at a small new school in his neighbourhood. He'd arrived five minutes late on his first day. Two students and the teacher—all women—turned to look at him. They were all in their late twenties and early thirties, and they were all pretty good-looking. Sang-ho started to attend regularly. 

They became friendly, and after class would sometimes grab a coffee or go out for a beer. One of the women was a graduate student and the other worked at a publishing house, and they both called him Elder Brother. To meet his duties as the elder brother, he paid for everything and listened attentively. He didn't do any of this with an ulterior motive. He was lonely, which was an unfamiliar feeling for him, and he didn't know how to overcome it. 

Ok-yeong didn't often come to these after-class gatherings. They always invited her to join them, but she would only come once every three or four times. And when she did, she would sit ramrod straight and not long after would say, 'I should get going.' He thought she was a little too aloof. It wasn't that she acted high and mighty. She was nice enough and answered questions with a gentle smile on her face. In other words, she smiled at everyone the same way. To him, it looked as though she were trying her best to protect her pride and dignity, rather than just being sociable. She was different from any other women he had encountered. That made Sang-ho uneasy. 

One day, a month later, he arrived five minutes late, as usual, to find that Ok-yeong was the only one there. She was sheathed in a black turtleneck, with her hand cradling her chin and her elbow propped on the lectern. 'Ji-yeong can't come because she has to work late,' she said, and let out a dry cough. 

Had she always been this small and thin? Sang-ho was surprised. They decided to wait another five minutes for Mi-gyeong. An awkward air settled over the room. Sang-ho took a seat in the middle. He looked down and pretended to concentrate on his class materials. Words entered his head but didn't stick. Ok-yeong kept coughing. She seemed tired. 

'Have you caught a cold?' he asked. 

'I think so,' she said vaguely, as if she were talking about someone else. 'I was really busy today and now this. It's killing me.' 

Sang-ho realized she wasn't wearing her usual polite smile. He left the classroom without a word, went over the road to a snack bar, asked for two rice rolls to take away and then went to the pharmacy next door for some cold medicine. To the pharmacist, who asked, 'Which would you like?' he replied, 'The most expensive kind, please.' 

Ok-yeong didn't smile when he returned with the plastic bag of food and the bag from the pharmacy. She swept aside her long fringe and, grateful but uncomfortable, said, 'Thank you. I'll eat it later, after class.' 

'Please, have some now.' 

'No, no. Let's start. I guess Mi-gyeong can't come today.' 

'Go ahead and eat. If we start now we're going to be too far ahead.' 

'I can't. The school rules . . .' 

'Rules are meant to be broken, aren't they?' Sang-ho snapped a pair of wooden chopsticks apart. 

'Maybe,' she murmured slowly. She took the chopsticks he'd handed her. And that was the beginning. 

The next month, Ok-yeong quit the school without notice. The new instructor was a man in his fifties, who talked through the phlegm rattling in his throat. He banned the use of Korean during class. Sang-ho grew annoyed and returned to being a lazy student. Another season dragged by. He went once a week to his ex-mother-in-law's to see the kids, paid a prostitute twice a month for sex, and drank every other day. And one day he picked up the phone and it was her. 

After work, he headed to the place they'd decided to meet, feeling as if he were under a spell. He started to climb up the subway stairs when an old woman selling roses nudged him. He bought a stem and put it deep in the inside pocket of his coat. Ok-yeong looked prettier and more mature than she had before. Her cheeks were less full and her eye make-up was darker. Thanks to her low neckline, he could see her collarbones, stretching across, taut. His eyes were drawn to them. They drank, and he started to get a bit pissed. She had a higher tolerance for alcohol than he'd expected. 

'You know, I felt a little hurt. You quit without saying anything,' Sang-ho said. 

'I went to Taiwan,' she said, her pink lips hesitant, and she shook her head violently. 'I'm never going back. That's why I went.' 

'Did something happen?' 

'I feel like I keep going backwards instead of going forwards. Reverting.' 

'Well, that happens in anyone's life. You go back then get it together and go forwards again. People who just go on without looking back don't know a thing about life.' It sounded pretty good, even as it came out of his mouth. He felt as if he suddenly knew a lot about life. 

She slipped a cigarette in her mouth. Sang-ho lit it for her. She blew smoke and laughed. 

'What?'

'Nothing. It's funny.' 

He looked down at the lighter in his hand. It read: 'Adult Club Queen Bee.' 

'Oh, these days they just give these things out on the street.' Turning red, he tried to explain it away. 

She stubbed out the cigarette firmly. 'That's OK. I like that about you.' She murmured, 'You might have guessed already, but I'm Chinese.' 
Sang-ho sat there in a daze, not knowing what to say. It wasn't because she revealed herself to be Chinese, but because she had just said she liked him. 

'Oh, well, I—' he said seriously, 'I'm divorced.' 

She was quiet for a while. They drank a few more glasses, swelling like a cloud right before a heavy snowfall. He remembered the rose in his coat. When he presented it to her, Ok-yeong swept her fringe back. It might have been her way of showing that she didn't know what to do. But this time, she had a smile on her face. He laughed heartily, like an idiot. It was probably the most romantic day in their history. A few glasses later, he reached out and touched her face. She didn't move. He mustered up the courage to stroke her cheek. It was pliable and soft. She didn't move at all. 

About three months after that Ok-yeong cautiously said, 'I think I'm pregnant.' It hadn't happened that first date. They didn't do it that day but soon enough they'd slept together four or five times. After she broke the news she said, 'But don't worry, you don't need to feel responsible.' 

When Sang-ho told his family, his eldest brother, who was never able to conceal his thoughts, spat out, 'What's wrong with you? How is it that each time you get married it's because of a baby?' Sang-ho yelled back at him, insisting that it wasn't so this time around. But, even now, he knew for certain that he would never have been able to marry Ok-yeong if it weren't for Yu-ji, who had appeared at the right moment—Yu-ji, the life that came into Sang-ho's so unexpectedly. 

When she'd returned to Korea in the mid-1990s after university, Ok-yeong found work as a Chinese-language instructor. She didn't have any other option. With an F2 visa, it was impossible to get a steady job. Chinese-Koreans who didn't apply for naturalization needed an F2 long-term residency visa, and this had to be renewed every five years. It wasn't difficult to find work if you gave up on finding stability. Taiwan University was a good school, was recognized as such even in Korea, and learning Chinese seemed to be the rage in the early to mid-1990s. But it wasn't easy to work as an instructor at a large language school or a large corporation. Those places were mired in rigid bureaucracies. The instructor reviews that students completed every month were delivered like a carefully folded paper airplane to the director's office, and on months when enrolment dropped, teachers were harangued by the management. 

Apart from this, and most importantly, she couldn't stand the people. She grew tired spending hours face to face with people she didn't have a say in choosing to spend time with. All the energy in her body leached out of her. During her breaks, when she contemplated entering the classroom again in ten minutes, it felt as though a heavy metal block were weighing on her shoul­ders. She didn't know what to do, and resorted to moving from school to school on the outskirts of the city. She could easily begin and then quit those jobs. 

It felt like a perfect fit, since she went to Taipei two or three times a year: when she managed to save enough money after working a few months, she would quit and fly there. When her relationship with Ming started to crack, she packed her bags and returned to Seoul. She felt she was ageing fast. Her life was always teetering on the edge, as it would be for anyone if they had to fall asleep every night on a mattress topped with an open suitcase. When she was there she missed being here and when she was here she missed being there. It was a demoralizing routine. She was almost thirty. 

One autumn day, as dead leaves scuttled over the ground, Ming flew in to Seoul on an afternoon flight. It had been four months since they'd seen each other. Ok-yeong drove to the airport in her white Pride. They began to argue at the arrivals gate at Gimpo Airport. The fight was sparked by something trivial: the thin tan jacket Ming was wearing bothered her. It was threadbare, and as he'd had it since he was twenty, the edges of his sleeves were frayed. 

'I told you to throw this out!' Ok-yeong reacted more edgily than usual. 

'Why? It's comfortable, and I like it,' Ming said, laid back as always. 

'I don't. We're older now. Why don't you care about what you wear? We're in Seoul now. Don't you know how people look down on you if you wear things like this?' 

Ming lowered his head and fidgeted with the passport he was holding. On the dark green cover were the words 'Republic of China' in Chinese and English and the round imprint of the flag. 

Something hot shot up from inside her. 'Answer me!' she cried, and he looked at her in surprise. 'Please don't wear this when you come here. Everyone can tell you're Chinese at one glance.' 

'I am Chinese,' Ming said derisively.

She hated how he said that. They didn't say another word until they got to her studio in Mapo. She glanced at Ming as she drove. He seemed on edge, and his expression betrayed his stubbornness. Nothing had changed since the time he'd announced his intention to drop out of school with only one term to go. She went to work, and left him lying across her bed avidly reading an old newspaper. She was wearing a turtleneck sweater and a scarf but she still felt cold. Every time she coughed her chest rang. Only when one of her students held out a plastic bag of rice rolls did she realize she hadn't eaten a bite all day. 

Until then, she hadn't paid much attention to Sang-ho. With the iner­tia that came from being with the same person for a long time, Ok-yeong believed her life was on a straight track, a line that was forever long and stretching beyond the furthest point she could see, like a book with the same prologue and epilogue. This belief wasn't a matter of will but a mat­ter of habit, and it didn't have anything to do with whether the book was fascinating or dull. The first time she took the subway with Sang-ho she was momentarily dazed, realizing that he wasn't that big compared to the other men in the carriage. In her mind Sang-ho had always been a large man. For ten years, Ming had been the standard by which she'd judged everything in the world. 

With Sang-ho, there were moments that took her by surprise. After sex he'd walk around the bedroom without anything on, not bothering to cover himself. He was dark-skinned and had the broad shoulders of a former wrestler. His body, the muscles that were carved into his body, the movements his body made—they were so unfamiliar to her that she'd try to figure out where she was. It wasn't that she didn't like Sang-ho. She was attracted to his simplicity and intuitive ways, to his innocent expression when he laughed at a comedy show on TV, to his even, white teeth that showed when he grinned. Perhaps she had given these characteristics more weight because she had never seen them in Ming. 

Ok-yeong could finally breathe: her relationship with Sang-ho didn't oblige her to read every atom of his soul. She couldn't live her life like two baby potatoes, stuck together and softening in the little crisper drawer of the fridge. Ming was still there, though. Every few days, they'd talk for a while on the phone, and continued to visit each other in Seoul and Taipei. Ming didn't throw out his old tan jacket. Sometimes she had the urge to tell him in the most cowardly and hurtful way she could imagine: 'I'm seeing someone else.' No: 'I'm sleeping with someone else.' But she didn't. Without a word, she'd fall asleep holding his hand, which was as familiar as the map to her hometown. She thought that was revenge; revenge without a target. Sometimes when she woke up she had tears in her eyes. She wished her life would head in an unpredictable direction. 

She didn't recognize the symptoms of pregnancy. Unlike the heroines in daily television dramas, she never opened the fridge door and, suddenly nauseated, rush to the toilet. She was just tired and sleepy all day long. After each class she was so exhausted that it felt as though she wasn't so much walking through the school hallways as pushing her way through a fog-heavy night. Six weeks after her last period, she stopped by a pharmacy on the way to work and bought a pregnancy test kit. She unwrapped it in the first-floor public toilet of the commercial building that housed the school. Drops of urine seeped into the stick. Two lines. She stared down at it for what seemed like a long time, but which probably had been less than a minute. Someone knocked on the door. She didn't know whether to toss the stick in the bin or walk out with it. The world spun. 

The following Saturday she took an early morning flight to Taipei. She told Sang-ho that she'd landed an urgent interpretation job. She hadn't meant to lie but it popped out because he'd asked, out of the blue, 'What if I come with you?' When she explained, he suggested: 'While you work, I can just sightsee. I've always wanted to go to Taiwan.' He seemed hesitant, but she didn't think he would drop it easily. 

She replied, sharply, 'You said you were going to see your kids this weekend.' 

He was deflated, his Achilles' heel attacked. He was someone who couldn't hide his emotions, whether he was happy or sad. 

She calmly told him, 'See you later.' 

As usual, it was raining in Taipei. When she saw Ming, who looked morose, like a plant growing in the shade, her mind went blank. 
'Anything new?' she asked, and he shook his head, placidly. 

'There must have been at least one exciting thing that happened,' Ok­yeong insisted, desperate. Ming calmly related the news that a famous politician in Taiwan was in trouble because he was suspected of taking a large bribe. 

'No, not stuff like that. Something that was really exciting for you. Tell me about something like that.' 

'There was nothing like that,' Ming said, shrugging. 'You're acting really strange today. What do you want to eat for lunch?' 

'What?'

'We have to eat. Where to you want to go?' 

'What about you, what do you want to eat?' 

'Me? Anything.' 

'Again! Why do you always hide like that? Why don't you just tell me what you really want to eat, what you really want to do?' Ok-yeong cried in frustration and Ming snorted, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. 

They left his place and went to Ming's motorcycle in the car park. He put on a yellow raincoat and handed her a purple one. She took it with the hand that wasn't holding her umbrella. 

'Aren't you going to get on?' he asked. Transparent raindrops slid down his slick jacket. 

Ok-yeong gripped her umbrella tightly. 'I'm pregnant.' 

There was a deep, wretched silence. Ming was first to speak. 'Is that why you won't get on?' 

It would have been better if she hadn't seen his expression. She understood that an era, one that was innocent and unformed and silly and lacking in obligations, was for ever gone. Perhaps it had ceased to exist a long time ago. 'You don't have to feel responsible.' 
​
Ming didn't answer. A dense pain gradually pressed down on her heart. Ok-yeong told herself she wouldn't blame anyone, not even herself. That was all she could do.