—They’re my upperclassmen.

The man had apparently been president of the student council, had been arrested protesting a few times, and was now some research professor at a historical organization. The woman, who had written short stories of their student activist days and received a prize given by a left-wing group, was currently a very important author. Being friends of friends, he worried that he would probably keep bumping into them in the future.

—Look, do you really have to care so much about what they think? So what if he used to be in the student council and she’s a writer? They were being shitty to you and putting you down. Even I was annoyed about it. Why should you stand there and take that from them? Who cares about their opinions, who cares about what they think? Shouldn’t you be grateful to me instead? We almost had to have lunch with them! And what kind of activists have such a horrible understanding of human rights? They’re just a couple of champagne socialists—

—Don’t . . .

—Don’t what?

—Don’t fucking talk about them like that.

That was the first time he had used informal Korean in my presence. It hurt enough to silence me. Without saying another word, I grabbed my bag and left his house. I hoped he would run after me. He didn’t. I was more angry than sad, more despairing than angry. That was probably the first time he hadn’t waved goodbye to me.

He gave me a call at dawn the next day. In a drunken voice, he demanded I come see him that minute. I dropped the formal language.

—I’ve got nothing to say to a fucking drunk.

—Language.

—Fuck your own language.

—When I say come, come.

—Fuck off. Am I your fucking dog?

—Please come.

I was his fucking dog. Off I trotted on my little puppy legs to his apartment, where I found him sitting on the floor on some spread-out newspapers, drinking soju with some banchan of octopus and rockfish. As soon as he saw me, he kissed me. The stench of alcohol made me push him away.

—Hey, stop that.

He said nothing as he silently started to take my clothes off and caress me. Looking down at his peach-like head and his face that looked like a dumpling gone cold, my resolve melted away, and I held him close.

After we had sex, he talked more about his past.

—My back isn’t so good. I was incarcerated a few times.

—For drugs?

—No, for activism.

That was the day he went into his whole thing about being a student activist in his twenties. Smelling the odor of fish mixed with the soju on his breath, I curled up beside him as I listened to his voice.