A body in a suit, thirty-nine years of age. I found it so hilarious that he made a point of saying he’d majored in economics at Columbia University that I tapped his profile for more. To see what kind of an idiot went to such great lengths to hide his face and identity but proclaimed where he went to school—an Ivy League university, at that. The idiot turned out to be “Alex,” a Malay Singaporean. His favorite book was Keynes’s Employment, Interest and Money. His favorite artists were Bach and Rachmaninoff? Of course they were. He must have traveled a lot for business, because his profile came with a long list of dates of availability per city, and he was in Seoul for only a few days. Looking through this silly profile, my thumb accidentally hit Super Like. We matched, and he immediately messaged me. Could I come to his hotel? I thought for three seconds and replied yes, I could. He gave me his room number at the Four Seasons. Not bothering to shower, I put on my tracksuit that I wore for pajamas, pressed down a cap on my head, and headed for the hotel. The receptionist gave me a suspicious look as I came in, and I knocked on Alex’s door with no hopes of any sort for this encounter. Because life had always been eager to fail my expectations, no matter how low I set them.

As I showered in his room, I thought, It’s been four days. It was funny to me that your scalp could get so itchy that it hurt.

Sex with him was neither good nor bad. The lights were down low, the room was bigger than I thought, and I could smell Tom Ford’s Leather on his neck. All I could think of was that my face felt dry since I’d applied nothing after coming out of the shower.

While he was in the shower, I looked through his Louis Vuitton wallet and took a photo of his ID, just in case. He was in his mid-forties and his name was Habibi. Of course his name was fake. Chinese money, Hong Kong dollars, Thai baht, and some unidentifiable denominations. His job must have involved a lot of travel. There were some 50,000-won bills, and I thought for a second of taking a couple but didn’t. I don’t know what came over me to even think that in that moment.

He came out with a bath towel around his waist. I’d done nothing wrong—well, I hadn’t stolen any money—but felt weirdly guilty and avoided his gaze. I was practically curled into myself like some cornered wild animal when he looked down at me and asked me a question.

—What does jeuk pay ching sai mean?

—What? What’s that?

—I hear it outside the hotel. Protestors shouting it.

—Uh . . . jeok-pye-cheong-san?

—Yes. I think that’s it.