He took down a few of M’s paintings, the ones that were slightly overlapping the edges of the window, thinking as he did so that they were far more conventional than anything he would put his name to. He spread a white sheet over the large rectangle of wooden floor upon which the light fell most strongly, and lay down upon it for a while, checking what she would have in her field of vision and whether the position would feel comfortable enough. The wooden beams spanning the high ceiling, the sky outside the window, the sheet, a layer of softness between his back and the hard floor, which was a little chilly but not unbearably so. He turned over onto his front, where different things caught his eye: M’s pictures, the patch of sunlight carved into the shade of the wooden floor, the soot caked onto the unused brick stove.

He spread out his painting materials, checked the batteries in his PD100 camcorder, set up the studio lighting for a long session of filming, opened his sketchbook, closed it again, put it back in his bag, took off his sweater, rolled up his sleeves, and waited. When it was getting on for three p.m., which was when they’d arranged to meet, he pulled his sweater back on and put on his shoes. He walked briskly to the underground station, breathing in the clean air of the suburbs.

His mobile rang, and he kept walking while he answered the call.

“It’s me.” His wife. “It looks like I’m going to be late finishing today. And the babysitter’s got a flat tire. You’ll have to pick Ji-woo up from the nursery at seven.”

“I can’t,” he answered shortly. “I can do nine at the earliest.” He heard his wife sigh.

“All right. I’ll ask the woman in 709 to look after him until nine.”

They hung up without any unnecessary small talk. That was the kind of relationship they had these days—that of business partners who were careful to excise any superfluity from their dealings, and whose only shared business was their child.

That night a few days ago after he’d gone to see his sister-in-law, he’d reached out in the darkness and pulled his wife to him, without giving himself time to think about what he was doing. Surprised and confused by this apparent show of desire, his wife still had no reason to question that this was what it was. If she’d looked, she would have seen something closer to fear in her husband’s eyes. But it was dark.

“What’s got into you?” He’d put his hand over her mouth then, so he wouldn’t have to hear that nasal voice. He pushed himself toward the image of her, finding it there in his wife’s nose and lips, the child-like curve of her neck, all outlined vaguely in the darkness. With her nipple standing straight and hard in his mouth, he reached down and pulled off her knickers. Every time he wanted to get the image of the small blue petal to open and close, he shut his eyes and tried to block out his wife’s face.