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I remember what he said after we first had sex.

—Spinoza died of a lung disease.

—Did they mention that in class? Wasn’t it tuberculosis or something?

—He was poor, he worked as a lens grinder, and the glass dust got into his lungs. He was an outsider among the academics. He couldn’t get a teaching job, could only find manual labor, and that ended up killing him.

—How sad for him.

—That’s why I’m doing this job. I’ve seen too many people ruined by their art or their convictions.

What could art have done to ruin anyone? And wasn’t Spinoza a philosopher, not an artist? I didn’t say any of this out loud. He kept talking in that overserious tone of his about things I had no interest in or didn’t think important, but I pretended to listen. The air purifier by the bed toiled throughout his rambling. I stared at it as I spoke.

—I’m glad the air in here is so clean.

The semibasement apartment had blackout curtains, making it as dark as a cave. It was quite large, but crammed with so much stuff that I felt a bit claustrophobic. His giant desk was stacked with books by philosophers I’d never heard of, and he had air purifiers, dehumidifiers, and air conditioners in both of the two rooms. There was also an ergonomic armchair, a Scandinavian-style sofa and dining table set, and a rug that looked new.

—Your home is amazing. Lots of nice things . . .

—Actually, my umma was a Jasmine Black.

—What’s that?

—It’s a customer status department stores give to people who spend a lot of money. Like a VIP of shopping.

—Mm . . . OK. (When was the last time I’d heard such transparent bragging?) You must be pretty well-off.

—I used to be, but not anymore. I told you about it, right? That my umma is an alcoholic. She likes to shop when she’s drunk. Look at how I have two air conditioners and dehumidifiers. The bookcase and sofa are all her drunk purchases.

—What a habit. Me shouting and kissing men when I’m drunk is nothing compared to that.

A joke, but it fell heavily into the dark silence that followed.

—My family went bankrupt because of it. I lived in an apartment in Apgujeong from the day I was born up to my college graduation, but now here I am in this dump.

What do I say to that? Still, this isn’t so bad, you’re not about to die from cancer or anything, at least you got to live in Apgujeong at one point in your life, were all not great options. Because I couldn’t break my childhood conditioning, I began calculating his position on my mother’s charts: an apartment of this size, grew up in Apgujeong, and a freelance editor. The result? I’m sorry, sir, we cannot offer you membership. But I myself was a French graduate from a mid-tier university and unemployed, so we were the perfect leftover couple, and the feeling that even that was fated made me think I was well and truly dickmatized.