By the time the rain stopped, the sun was setting. We gazed at the atmospheric view and the violet sun as we downed a couple of beers. We bought matching Winnie the Pooh tank tops and put them on right away.

On Saturday, we wore the tank tops again, this time to the clubs. It was midnight when a familiar song started to play: T-ara’s “Sexy Love.” How many years had it been? A group of locals—my T-ara group’s counterpart in Thailand—stormed the stage and began to flawlessly execute the choreography. Gyu-ho and I screamed as we hugged each other and hopped up and down. Gyu-ho’s head felt warm and lovely, and we kissed right there in the middle of the club.

I’ve read somewhere that lovers will only quarrel when they visit Bangkok together, and we were the same. That one of us was staring after some guy, that the traffic was atrocious, and a whole score of other things I don’t even remember squabbling about and getting into a wordless funk over—none of that mattered after a few pints and a kiss.

Because we were on vacation.

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After we came back to reality, we quickly became mired in the usual fatigue that came with the work we had to do for a living. The tank tops we wore in Thailand became loungewear. Pooh’s face on the chest of our clothes started to pill, got splattered by broth from instant noodles, and then faded. Occasionally we laughed over our memories of the trip, but mostly we exchanged complaints about how dead tired we were, pinging them back and forth like we were playing table tennis. Gyu-ho and I had come to see each other as a part of a landscape of tedium. Just another prop in our monotonous, sweaty days.

After the trip, we began to argue more often than ever. Twice we even split up. One of the times we were apart, Gyu-ho moved out, and the other time, I did. We saw different people. A lot of people in my case, and probably the same for Gyu-ho. Once enough time passed and our hate, resentment, and reasons for fighting began to fade from memory, we got back together, moved back into the apartment, and asked no questions of each other as we silently made up and continued our relationship.

4.

After New Year’s, we started taking Mandarin classes. Gyu-ho’s hospital was planning to launch a consortium with a big Chinese medical corporation to set up hospitals in Beijing and Shanghai, which was what prompted me to suggest it. There had been rumors circulating in my company that we were opening a China office too. And as the time we spent together had shrunk so much, it seemed to be a good idea to have something we could do jointly. On nights when classes finished late, we would take a cab back home together, staring off in opposite directions. Seoul’s scenery passed by slowly outside the car window. The first time I met Gyu-ho, these streets were flooded with the light of neon. Thinking of my emotions back then, I couldn’t help but grin. I had been the one to sign up for classes first, but Gyu-ho was making much better progress. I wasn’t great at memorizing things, and unlike me, illiterate in Chinese characters from a young age, ­Gyu-ho used his characteristic diligence to forge ahead with great speed. He managed to obtain a level 5 on the HSK exam in only six months. I failed that level but applied for the post in Shanghai anyway.