A Clean Break

To get to the studio apartment, first I had to actually get dressed.

I stood in front of the walk-in closet again. The three skirts hung there, untouched. I'd hoped they might have turned into pants overnight, but the world wasn't that kind.

The miniskirt was ruled out from the start. The pleated skirt came up a handspan above the knee. That left one pale beige maxi dress, ankle-length and the least embarrassing of the three.

"Alright. You're the one."

There was one more hurdle to clear before I could put it on. Underwear lay folded in the drawer beneath the closet. I picked up a bra and stared at it for a good long while. It took me a full minute just to figure out which side was front and which was back, and another ten to reach behind me and fasten the clasp.

Women do this every single day?

My arms ached. Once it was finally on, something felt tight and restrictive everywhere. I decided it must just be how these things were and resolved to endure it. I had nothing to compare it to.

I pulled the dress over my head. The soft fabric slid down my body in one smooth ripple. Then I looked in the mirror.

A slender, graceful young woman stood there. The beige dress dipped in once at the waist and spread softly all the way down to her ankles. Across her chest, the fabric pulled taut. My face went hot, and I looked away from the mirror.

Then I took a step.

"Huh?"

A breeze slipped up between my legs. The hem brushed against my ankles, swaying. Nothing like wearing pants at all — it felt like there was nothing underneath me at all.

"Feels... empty down there."

Another step. Cool air climbed up my calves.

"It's breezy, I'll give it that. Weird feeling, though."

I did a lap around the living room. With every step, the skirt clung to my legs and then came loose again. In forty-three years of life, I had never felt anything like it. I couldn't get used to it. I didn't want to get used to it. One day. That's all I had to bear it for.

By the front door sat a pair of low-heeled loafers. I bent down to put them on — and froze again. My chest hit my knees. I couldn't see my feet.

In the end I had to squat down on the entryway floor, tucking the hem of the dress between my knees, just to get my shoes on.

"Haaah. Even putting on shoes is a whole production."

The middle-aged couple I met in the elevator took one look at me and stopped talking. The concierge in the first-floor lobby froze mid-greeting, head still bowed. When I hailed a taxi outside the building, the driver checked the rearview mirror and looked me over about three times.

"Where to?"

I rattled off the address of my studio apartment. The driver tilted his head.

"That's a pretty old neighborhood. What business does a young lady like you have out there?"

"Packing up some things."

The taxi drove along the Han River. Outside the window, the scenery sank lower and grew shabbier by the minute. The gleaming glass towers disappeared, replaced by multi-story commercial buildings crowded with signs. Familiar scenery. The view I'd looked at every day for thirteen years.

When I got out in front of the studio building, the driver took one look at the fare and waved his hand.

"Forget the change. You take care out here, miss."

"Thank you."

I smiled out of habit. My sales smile. The driver sat gripping the wheel and didn't move for a long moment. Only after the car behind us blared its horn did the taxi pull away.

I winced. I'd promised myself that morning not to smile with this face.

Climbing the stairs of the studio building, I ran into the old man from next door on the second-floor landing. Mid-seventies, living alone — the man Park Min-goo used to help change lightbulbs for, and who used to slip him rice cakes on holidays.

He looked at me, then at the door I was trying to unlock, then back at me.

"That's young Min-goo's place. Who might you be, miss?"

My heart lurched. I had no answer prepared. I racked my brain. Thirteen years in sales — I did not stutter in front of clients.

"I'm his niece. Min-goo's niece."

"Niece?"

"His uncle had to move somewhere far away, all of a sudden. I came to pack up his things for him."

"Far away? Where to?"

"Very far away. He went abroad."

The moment the words left my mouth, I realized my mistake. He went somewhere better. It sounded like I was talking about a dead man. The old man's face collapsed in an instant.

"Oh no. That boy—"

"No, no! He's alive! It's for work — an overseas assignment. Things are going incredibly well for him."

"Oh? Well, thank goodness. You had me worried."

The old man clutched his chest in relief. So did I, sneakily — and the instant my hand touched my chest, the sheer volume of it startled me so badly I snatched my hand away.

"Min-goo was a good boy. Changed the bulb in my room, looked after my boiler in the winter. I'm glad things worked out for him."

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded.

"You don't look a thing like your uncle, though. He was built like a bear."

"I take after my mother's side."

The lies poured out smooth as silk. My ears burned.

The moment I opened the door, the familiar smell hit me. Damp bedding, instant ramen, mold. The smell of thirteen years.

I'd tied my tie and walked out that door just yesterday morning. One single day had passed, and somehow the room looked smaller. No — the room was exactly the same. It was me who had changed.

There wasn't much to take.

First, the photo of my parents on the bookshelf. I lifted the frame down with both hands and hugged it to my chest — or tried to, until it got caught, and I ended up nestling it carefully between my arms instead.

From the back of a drawer I pulled out my father's watch. An old wristwatch whose hands had stopped twenty years ago. It was on his wrist the day of the accident. I'd always figured the repair money would be wasted — no, the truth was, fixing it felt like it would erase that day — so I'd left it as it was. I wrapped it neatly in a handkerchief and tucked it into my bag.

And one battered old notebook, its cover worn round at the corners. I flipped to the first page and there it was: the crooked handwriting of Park Min-goo at twenty-three.

Line after line, a list that had gone on since he was twenty-three. Not a single entry had ever been crossed out. I closed the notebook and set it beside my parents' photo.

One last thing: from the very bottom of the desk drawer, buried under the junk, I pulled out a single USB drive.

The record of the department head's and the deputy manager's kickbacks. Quotes where the supplier unit prices had crept up for no reason. Photos of the deputy manager accepting envelopes, shot from a distance. Notes I'd secretly jotted down when a client's manager ran his mouth over drinks. Three years' worth of gathering it, just in case it might someday be useful. I never worked up the courage to actually use it. Get fired at forty-three, and there's nowhere left to go.

That wasn't true anymore.

I powered up the ancient laptop. The boot screen alone took three minutes.

First, the resignation letter. From the company email, under Park Min-goo's name. A hand that had written hundreds of proposals over thirteen years made short work of it.

I hit send. My hand didn't tremble.

Next, the tip-off. From a freshly created anonymous email account, addressed simultaneously to HR and the audit team. A short subject line.

My finger paused for a moment over the send button.

Last night's post came back to me. Or how about just file the report and quit, clean and satisfying?

"Yeah. Do it."

I pressed it. Message sent.

At that very moment, the ancient cell phone rang. The department head. I didn't answer. A text arrived instead.

I typed a reply.

After sending it, I blocked the department head's number. Then the deputy manager's. Two taps of a finger and it was done.

I closed the laptop and sat there for a long while. It felt like something had been punched clean through the center of my chest, and a cool wind was blowing through the hole. Far cooler than the breeze sneaking up under my skirt.

"That... felt good."

I said it out loud. My clear voice echoed through the cramped studio. For the first time in thirteen years, I laughed in this room.

I was hungry. Opening the cabinet under the sink, I found one last packet of instant ramen left. I boiled water in the electric kettle, poured it in, and sat down on the floor — well, stood back up once when the dress bunched under me, gathered the skirt out of the way, and sat down again. Apparently sitting on the floor in a skirt took technique, too.

While waiting the three minutes, I looked around the room. Five neckties on the wall hook, two pairs of dress shoes with worn heels, stacks of business cards on the desk. Park Min-goo, Manager, Sales Team 2. Ten years since he'd made manager, and not a single step further — a business card frozen in place.

I peeled open the ramen lid. The last meal Park Min-goo ate in this room had been cup ramen, and the first and final meal Yoon Seo-rin would eat in it was cup ramen, too. I drained the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠broth to the last drop. It tasted exactly the same.

The business cards went into a trash bag. The neckties too. The shoes too. My hand never once hesitated.

I called the landlady and told her I was the niece — that his uncle had been posted overseas and was giving up the room. She kept me on the line for ages, saying how sorry she'd be to lose a tenant of thirteen years. We'd sort out the deposit later, she said.

Before leaving, I knocked on the door next door.

"Grandpa, this is from Min-goo. He wanted you to have it."

An electric heating pad, a half sack of rice, and an unopened ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠box of ramen — the things that had carried Park Min-goo through his winters. The old man waved me off, then finally accepted them.

"Tell that boy thank you for me. And tell him to eat properly out there."

"I will. I promise."

I looked around the room one last time. The bare bookshelf, the moldy window frame, the boiler that had rattled and shuddered. For thirteen years, this room had taken me in. It was never a good room, but on rainy days and snowy days alike, it had let me sleep.

Standing at the door, I bowed in farewell. My chest got in the way and kept me from bowing deep, but I bent as far as it would let me.

"Thank you. For everything."

I closed the door and dropped the key through the mail slot.

On the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way back, the taxi passed a familiar intersection. The office building swept past the window. The lights were still on up on the twelfth floor, where the sales division sat. By now, my resignation would be lying on the department head's desk, and the report would be sitting in the audit team's inbox.

I pressed my forehead to the glass and watched the lights fade into the distance. For thirteen years I'd kept my head down inside those windows. Today, I drove past with my head high.

"Driver, could you put the radio on?"

Trot came on. The driver turned it up. I smoothed my skirt neatly over my knees and hummed along. In the rearview mirror, the driver shot me a couple of odd looks. Fair enough — a twenty-one-year-old young lady who knew every word of a trot song.

I got back to the penthouse around dinnertime. But the day's greatest challenge was still waiting for me. The shower.

I stood in front of the bathroom for five full minutes. To take off the dress, I had to look at this body. To wash, I had to touch it. For a forty-three-year-old man, it was a mountain far too tall to climb.

"Eyes shut. That's how we do this."

I squeezed my eyes closed and undressed. Fumbling blind, I turned on the shower. The moment the warm water came pouring down, some of the tension drained away. I picked up the soap and cautiously, carefully, started scrubbing from the arms down.

Arms were fine. Shoulders were fine. Then came the problem.

The instant my hand touched my chest, I flinched. The soap shot out of my grip and hit the floor. Thud — clatter-clatter.

"Aigoo."

Still with my eyes shut, I bent down to retrieve it — and my chest got in the way. I crouched instead, groping around the floor. The soap, apparently possessed, kept slipping away from my fingers in every direction. Finally I cracked one eye open. Mercifully, the billowing steam hid just about everything.

Soap recovered, I stood back up. This time I worked the lather into a washcloth and scrubbed as fast as I could, thinking absolutely nothing. Every place my hand landed, I flinched and flinched again. I couldn't tell whether my body was tingling or my nerves were.

Washing my hair was another war entirely. Hair down to my waist produced endless suds no matter how many times I rinsed. I squeezed out fresh shampoo three separate times. In the days of Park Min-goo, one minute had been plenty for a full shampoo.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom, an hour had passed. I had no idea how a towel was supposed to be worn, so I wrapped it around my waist — then realized something was deeply wrong and hauled it up over my chest instead.

Women do this every single day?

The second time today I'd said it out loud.

I set my parents' photo on the nightstand beside the bed. Next to it, my father's watch wrapped in its handkerchief. Next to that, the battered old notebook.

My mother and father were smiling in the photograph, on either side of twenty-three-year-old Park Min-goo.

"Dad. Mom."

I called to them in my high, clear voice.

They'd never heard this voice. They'd never seen this face, either.

"This is what I am now. I quit the company, too. Clean break, no regrets."

I looked at the photo for a while.

"You two always used to say you wished you'd had a daughter."

A little laugh slipped out of me.

"Well. Looks like I went and became one for real."

My father smiled from inside the frame. It seemed like he was telling me I'd done well. My mother seemed to be asking whether I'd eaten properly today.

Come to think of it, I hadn't had a single proper meal all day.

"Tomorrow, I'm eating a real breakfast. Starting first thing."

I thought for a moment, then added:

"Oh — and I need to buy mix coffee, too."

I flopped onto the bed with a towel wrapped roughly around my wet hair. I briefly considered blow-drying it, but honestly, I couldn't be bothered.

The cloud-soft duvet swallowed me up. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, the Han River nightscape ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠glittered.

It still didn't feel real.

It still felt awkward, too.

Every time I passed a mirror, I felt like I was looking at a stranger.

But I didn't hate it.

For the first time in my life, in fact, I was looking forward to tomorrow.

For the first time in thirteen years, I drifted to sleep with no dread of going to work in the morning.