The place was like a franchise coffeeshop, spacious, clean, and with mechanically polite staff. Despite the fact that it was midafternoon, there were many patients in the waiting room. (Obviously) I was the only man there. To make it look like I was totally at ease, I sat down on a sofa and opened up an issue of Cosmopolitan. It was filled with articles about Healthy and Beautiful Sex, the Different Orgasms of Different Genders, and other subjects that felt totally abstract to me. I was wondering how I could stop nervously biting my nails when Jaehee came back out. She had a bright smile as she whispered:

—They’ll do it.

Four days later, she underwent the procedure. I paid for it in three installments: a little less than 700,000 won total. She took a taxi home afterwards. As soon as she got back, she very uncharacteristically went straight to bed, so I decided to make her seaweed soup. Never having cooked it from scratch, I misjudged how much of the dried seaweed I needed and ended up hydrating what looked like a kelp farm in the sink. I grabbed a handful like a wig and waved it over the sink shouting, “Look at this, aren’t I the biggest idiot in the world?” But Jaehee didn’t so much as turn her head my way. Any other time, she would’ve cackled along. I said to her back:

—Does it hurt a lot?

—Do you really want to know?

—Nope. This’ll be ready soon.

The first seaweed soup I’d made in my life ended in total failure. I didn’t cook the meat in the sesame seed oil at the right temperature, which gave it a bitter taste, and all the seasoning salt in the world couldn’t take away the blandness of the broth. Jaehee took about three spoonfuls and went back to bed. She moaned and sighed for a bit and then said:

—Cigarette.

—No way! Even double-eyelid surgery makes you rest for four days after.

—Cigarette!

I got her a new pack from the freezer. Jaehee put the yellow filter of the Marlboro Red in her mouth and took a delicious draw.

—Goddamn. I guess I’ll live.

Two weeks later, Jaehee returned to the world of functional alcoholism.

◊

One night, we were woken up from our usual drunken stupor by someone’s shouting:

—Come out, you fucking bastard!

. . . along with other vociferous invitations of that nature. I covered my head with my blanket. Fucking asshole, why can’t these idiots just go home if they can’t hold their alcohol? But as I tried to fall asleep again, I suddenly had a feeling that the name he was shouting seemed vaguely familiar. It even, kind of, sounded like my name. Jaehee also got up, rubbing her eyes, and said:

—I think it’s for you. Better get down there.