Who Dares Touch What's Mine?
I open my eyes, and the first thing I do is sit down at the vanity. I don't know when it started. My eyes snap open before the alarm even goes off, and after washing my face, my feet carry me straight there on their own. It's a rickety shelf in the corner of my tiny room, barely worthy of the name vanity. For nearly twenty years since giving birth to Woochan, it held just a single lotion, a BB cream, and an eyebrow pencil. But lately, things have been piling up one by one.
A tint I grabbed from the discount rack on my way home from the mart. A cushion foundation I bought because it was on sale. I know it's not weird to buy makeup, but it still makes me feel embarrassed for some reason.
I sit down in front of the mirror. It's a small one I never used to look at. The plastic frame is cracked, and under the fluorescent light, the reflective surface has yellowed. Lately, I've been spending more time staring at the face reflected in it.
I pat the cushion onto my cheeks, draw my eyebrows, and dab tint on the inside of my lips, smearing it with my finger. My movements are clumsy. I can't even remember the last time I put on makeup. And yet, here I am—Ayoung—trying to pretty myself up in front of the mirror.
What if. That boy messages me today. What if he calls me out with no warning on my way home from work. That thought sets my hands in motion every morning.
The face in the mirror looks unfamiliar. A faint color blooms over skin that used to be dull and sallow, sharpening my features. Was my face always like this? I gaze at myself in a daze for a moment, then freeze at the sound of movement from the kitchen.
Woochan's awake. I hurriedly shove the stuff on the vanity into the corner and head to the kitchen.
Steam is rising from the rice cooker. While I pull side dishes from the fridge and heat up the soup, Woochan finishes washing up and sits at the table.
"Mom, did you do your makeup?"
My hand pauses as I set down his spoon.
"Uh... yeah."
I try to sound casual. I place the soup bowl on the table and avert my eyes naturally.
Woochan pauses mid-bite and looks up at me. He seems like he's about to say something but swallows it back, hesitating.
"Mom."
"Yeah."
"That... um..."
He falters for a moment. His gaze wanders over the table before finally creeping up to my face.
"Mom, did you... meet someone? Like, a guy?"
My heart plummets.
"A... guy?"
I feign surprise. I try to smile, but my lips won't cooperate. Something thuds wildly inside my chest. Did he find out? What? What could he possibly know? He can't know anything. He doesn't know.
"No... I mean... you've been doing your makeup lately, and dressing nicer..."
Woochan's voice is cautious. He's not scolding me—his face shows he's not even sure if he should be asking.
"Oh... yeah, I just thought I'd change things up a bit."
I wave it off with a laugh, forcing my voice to lighten. It's fine, no big deal, just that. The words roll around on my tongue, but none of them feel natural.
Woochan sets down his rice bowl.
"Mom."
"Yeah."
"I know how hard it's been raising me."
My spoon stops. So does my breath. This kid—this son I thought just kept his head down and ate—lifts his eyes to meet mine.
"No..."
"So if you meet someone new, it's okay. Even if it's not right now."
His voice is steady, but the tips of his ears are red. I can imagine how much he wrestled with saying this.
Words won't come. My throat burns as something wells up. I want to look away. If I hold his gaze any longer, I might spill everything without meaning to.
The man your mom is seeing? It's your friend. A twenty-year-old boy seventeen years younger than me. I'm the woman who gave her body to him, who loves it so much that she does her makeup, buys matching lingerie, stares into the mirror every morning.
I swallow it down. Force it past the lump in my throat.
"...Yeah. I... I will."
I smile. I have to. Before the tears welling in my eyes spill over, I pull up the corners of my mouth.
Woochan sees the smile and relaxes, going back to his rice. I sip my soup. The hot broth scalds my throat, but the chill inside my chest lingers.
Today, the me smiling in front of this child feels especially foreign.
Two in the afternoon. In the back aisle of the store, I'm stocking yogurt on the dairy shelf.
"Ayoung, you got some good news lately?"
I turn at the voice behind me. Two older sisters from my shift are standing there with their cart.
"Nothing special."
"Come on, there is. Your face looks different."
"Yeah, you're even doing makeup now."
I laugh and wave it off. I pretend to focus on opening the yogurt box, but I can't stop my ears from burning.
The warehouse door swings open, and a couple of male employees push out a cart. As one passes me, he calls out.
"Ayoung, looking pretty today too."
"Yeah, must be tough living alone when you're like Ayoung."
Light laughter in their tone. Not sincere, not malicious—just the kind of joke I've heard for over ten years. Ever since word got out that I'm an unwed mother, even a single comment like that used to twist my gut. I'd go to the bathroom, splash water on my face in front of the mirror, and swallow it down. At night, after putting young Woochan to bed, I'd pull the covers over my head and cry silently. Those were bleak, lonely nights, wallowing in my abandoned state.
Unwed mother. It took years to accept that the word pointed at me, and more years after that to pretend it didn't hurt.
"But having a son makes it all worthwhile."
I brush off the joke with a light laugh. The bitter aftertaste that used to linger behind my smile is gone now.
Someone sees me as a woman. Someone who calls this body, at this age and in this situation, special. When I think of where that boy's hands have touched me, empty words from warehouse guys blow past like wind.
I finish shelving and turn the cart around when applause rings out from the middle of the store.
Clap, clap.
A young man is gathering the employees. The mart manager who started a year ago, in a neatly ironed shirt with his name tag.
"Dinner gathering tonight. Everyone attend."
Murmurs ripple through the staff. I stand a step back, gripping the cart handle.
The manager's eyes scan the crowd and pause on me. It's a split second, but I catch it. No one senses a gaze lingering like I do.
I lower my eyes and push the cart toward the warehouse aisle. As I go, I touch the phone in my pocket. The screen doesn't light up. No messages. I just want to confirm it's there.
The dinner is at a meat place near the mart. My seat is right next to the manager. I don't know who set it up, but when I arrive, my name tag is already there.
The manager turns, points at the seat, and looks at me.
"Ayoung, here."
I have no choice but to sit. As I shrug off my cardigan and pull out the chair, the sister across from me shoots me a look. Is it "good luck" or "be careful"? Her face gives nothing away.
The manager is young. Early thirties. Neatly combed-back hair, casual jacket instead of his work shirt. Not even two months on the job, but rumors already swirl in the store. Son of a head office executive director. Whispers that a few young female staff slept with him and got better shifts. Even talk of contract workers going full-time.
The ajummas gossip in specifics, and it's reached my ears more than once. I know why this man is doing this to me.
It started with schedule changes. Fewer night shifts, more mornings that suit me. When I thanked him, he smiled and said, "You're special, Ayoung." That's when his gaze changed. Every time we brushed past in the store, his eyes dropped from my face to my chest. Even under the mart vest, he traced the lines that wouldn't hide.
I knew exactly where he was looking every time. I tried to keep distance. Short replies, no eye contact, sticking with other staff. But he only pressed closer. Following me to the warehouse during inventory, calling me to sit next to him at gatherings. I know exactly what a guy like him wants from me.
"Ayoung, anything you want to eat?"
The manager leans in with the menu, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch. I pull back a bit and smile.
"Anything's fine."
It's my practiced smile. The one I've worn for over ten years. Not a refusal, not acceptance—just enough not to offend.
Drinks start flowing. He pours beer into my glass. I take it and wet my lips.
"Ayoung, your son's on scholarship there, right?"
"Yes."
"I graduated from there too."
"Oh... really."
The moment I answer, he flashes in my mind. Same school. The manager keeps talking—something about alumni, connections—but it doesn't register. I see his mouth moving, but the sound is distant.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A short vibration. My hand moves on instinct. I light the screen: one message.
My heart races. I hide the slight tremble in my fingers as I type back.
I send it, turn off the screen, and set it face-down on my thigh. My face heats up—beer, or that one line? I can't tell.
"Ayoung, what're you doing?"
The manager's voice is right by my ear. I turn, and his face is too close. Boozy breath hits me.
"Oh, just a quick message."
"Phone during dinner..."
He says it smiling, but his eyes aren't. He pours more beer, leaning closer. Our shoulders touch, elbows brush. Then, under the table, his hand rises. His palm lands on my thigh.
The old Ayoung would have endured it. Grit her teeth, keep smiling, wash it off in the bathroom, cry under the covers at home. Because losing this job means no tuition for Woochan. An unwed mother can't be picky. That's how I'd swallowed it all these years.
But now, my body remembers only his touch.
I grab the manager's wrist and slap it off my thigh—hard enough to make a sound.
Thwack.
His hand bounces onto the table. The room goes quiet. Chopsticks freeze mid-air, heads turn as one.
"Ah..."
The manager's face hardens. The smile vanishes, eyes turn cold. He doesn't hide his anger. Humiliation burns in the gaze looking down at me.
Whispers spread. Eyes lock on me. No one takes my side. The chill in the air settles squarely on me.
The manager sets down his glass. He leans in, whispering in my ear. Low, but clear.
"Spend the night with me, and we'll call it even."
Blood drains from my face. He's whispering filth right at me.
As I open my mouth—
Beer pours over the manager's head.
Gurgle, gurgle.
It cascades from his hair, down his face, soaking his shirt. He shoves back his chair and jumps up.
"Argh...! What the—?!"
Nearly a scream. Beer foam drips through his wet hair. He rubs his eyes and turns, spotting the person standing there holding an empty beer bottle upside down.
My eyes widen. It's him. Jinho sets the empty bottle down on the table with a thunk. Beer splashes onto the plates. The whole gathering freezes. Staff eyes fix on Jinho.
Jinho looks down at the manager and smiles. The same smile he wore when threatening him—but now, it looks more lovable than ever.
"You crazy fuck, who the hell do you think you're touching?"
