Nice to Meet You, Auntie
Ah, my back's killing me.
Propped up on my elbows at the living room table, I let out a long, lazy yawn and rolled my heavy shoulders in circles. A sticky fatigue clung dull and thick along my spine. From my lower back to the insides of my thighs, every muscle was taut and knotted. For the toll of thrusting my hips up nonstop all last night, it was a pretty damn satisfying ache.
Then, with a creak, Woochan's bedroom door swung open. The guy stumbled out into the living room, clutching his head with both hands like it might roll off. His puffy eyelids were swollen, his hair a wild mess of cowlicks sticking out every which way, and even the drag of his bare feet on the floor sounded utterly pathetic.
"Sleep okay?"
"...Head hurts."
Woochan scrunched up his face, pressing hard on his temples as he flopped into the chair across from me. A hangover from just two cans of beer? What a useless sack of meat. Wonder who he takes after...
Click. Right on cue, the bathroom door opened, and Ayoung stepped out fresh from her shower. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel, her bare face flushed pink without a trace of makeup. She wore a faded gray T-shirt with a stretched-out neckline and plain black leggings—dowdy, baggy stuff you'd scrounge from a flea market. But this wasn't the weary, grime-worn Ayoung from just days ago. Peeks of red skin behind her ears flashed through the gaps in her wrapped hair. Every time her T-shirt's neckline slipped to one side, a thin layer of fabric artfully concealed the secret spot above her collarbone where my bite mark lingered in vivid purple. After panting like an animal under me all night, crushed and gasping over and over, ironically, it was like a layer of her old exhaustion had sloughed clean off her face. Her lips, now flushed with blood, looked noticeably plumper than a few days back, and the redness around her eyes from crying in ecstasy all night had morphed into a poignant, dewy glow. An unintentional sensuality, deadlier for it. The thick, primal allure her body exuded on its own seeped sticky through that shabby cotton.
She was a woman who'd gotten knocked up in her late teens and spent nearly twenty years cloaked solely in the harsh shell of "mom," slaving away alone. I'd spent the night madly drilling into the deep well at the bottom of that repressed pit, so now her viscous true nature was finally starting to crawl up.
Ayoung's gaze drifted toward Woochan, sprawled out like a zombie.
"Drink in moderation, okay?"
Her words scolded her son, but her voice sat noticeably lower than usual—raw from stifling screams down her throat all night long. To Woochan's dulled ears, it probably just sounded like his half-asleep mom's nagging, but hearing that rasped tone nearly made me burst out laughing. As she spat out that brief reprimand, her eyes flicked toward me for a split second. Not bold enough to meet mine head-on, like a stray cat barely catching me in the edge of her vision. Her pupils quivered as if desperate not to get caught aware of me, then she jerked her head away in panic before our gazes could lock. Ayoung spun on her heel and hurried toward the master bedroom. Her full hips swayed with each quick step, the curves rippling perfectly. Her itchy back vanished into the door crack like it was sucked in, and the door slammed shut with urgent force.
"...What's with her this morning?"
Woochan stared blankly at the firmly shut door, looking dazed. I rested my chin at an angle on the table and casually turned his gaze away.
"Probably worried your stomach's upset from the hangover."
"...Oh, yeah."
Woochan scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and nodded like an idiot.
"Still, you gotta snap out of it and hit the library."
Talking about studying with a face like he might puke any second from the hangover. I let out a dry chuckle.
"You're one tough, impressive bastard."
At my backhanded praise, Woochan just quirked his lips like it was nothing. Those awkwardly smiling eyes were eerily like Ayoung's—a damn genetic prank. I savored the sight of his hungover, dopey mug at leisure, rolling a sweet, fishy thrill in my gut. While you were passed out in your room, I was rolling in the hay next door with your mom all night. Thanks for everything, Woochan. My root was still throbbing from it. The generous stash of condoms I'd brought? Wiped clean. Just before dawn, after Ayoung passed out cold beside me, I'd conked out like a corpse too. But early morning, she'd shaken my shoulder frantically with a face drained of color. In this cramped place with just one bathroom, if her son woke first and caught his naked friend sprawled on his mom's bed... That horrifying thought alone probably made her want to bite her tongue and die. Luckily, booze-soaked Woochan didn't crawl out till nearly noon, dodging the worst timing.
Creak. Then, the master door cracked open oh-so carefully. Ayoung emerged, swapped into a thin black turtleneck that came up to her chin—clearly to hide every red mark my lips had left. The second she opened the door, a glimpse through the gap showed the bed soaked in her juices. Only after carefully shutting it did the rigid tension in her shoulders finally ease a fraction.
"I'll make some bean sprout soup for your hangover."
Her voice toward Woochan was still tender and warm. But her bare feet heading to the kitchen took noticeably shorter, quicker steps, her eyes glued strictly to the floor pattern. That pitiful back view, straining to keep up the facade of the utterly normal, loving mom in front of her clueless son. It stirred a twisted sadism in me, but it was kinda hilarious too.
"Thanks, Mom."
Woochan flashed a bright smile and bowed his head.
"I'll dig in too, thanks, ma'am."
I waited for his greeting to end, then added mine a lazy beat later. Ayoung's steps toward the kitchen hitched for an instant, but she never turned to look at me. Instead, from behind, her ears flushed bright red—plain as day from the living room. A far cry from last night's fierce glare that could've torn me apart. The primal fear and hostility layered under that venomous rage had peeled back a layer, replaced by a thick shame that couldn't face me straight-on. No more feral threats to kick me out. Just a pathetic, groveling defense to somehow endure this suffocating space without meeting my eyes. A perfect sign.
I propped my elbow on the table at a slant, leisurely ravaging her lithe back at the sink with my gaze. Everyday motions: pulling bean sprouts from the fridge, quietly filling a pot at the faucet. Even in that mundane routine, bending forward lifted her short top's hem, revealing the deep dip of her waist. On tiptoes for seasonings from the upper cabinet, her tight leggings pulled taut over springy calf muscles and round ass cheeks. Too fine a body to lump under drab labels like "Woochan's mom" or "auntie."
———————
Ayoung stood at the register, staring blankly into space. The ceiling's white fluorescent lights slid over the endlessly moving conveyor belt, and beyond it, customers' busy hands placed items—but nothing fully registered in her eyes. Her gaze faced forward, but her focus was lost far away.
That devastating night a few days ago. The unfamiliar moans bursting from her own lips still clung to her ears, refusing to fade. The beastly pants leaking from her mouth. Even stifling it desperately, biting down hard, the screams tore through her throat. With her oblivious son asleep on the other side of a thin wall, she'd been helplessly rocked all night under a young man's merciless thrusts—the image burned into her retinas whether eyes open or shut.
But what strangled her most wasn't just shame or physical pain. Amid the ripping agony, a creepily sweet current had snuck in. At moments she should've pushed away with all her might, that vulgar sensation made her hips tremble and lift instead. That was the real noose choking her now.
Twenty years ago. Seventeen-year-old Ayoung. While peers giggled over pasting idol pics from magazines, she quietly turned pages in moldy poetry books in the library corner. Half-jokingly called a "literary girl" in her fresh youth. Too naive to grasp love's brutal weight, thinking romantic metaphors in print were the whole world.
Then a man approached out of nowhere. Now, even that cursed face wouldn't come clear. His voice, his body heat—eroded not by twenty years' time, but scraped away by her own hands. All that remained was bitter self-mockery at her childish delusion of fated love. The man who'd seduced her was a married teacher with a family, and by the time she realized the ugly truth, seventeen-year-old Ayoung had crossed an irreversible line of ruin.
What a foolish, pathetic choice. But she couldn't gut the life coiled deep in her belly. Ignoring her parents' pleas as their world crumbled, enduring the world's finger-pointing like vermin, she bolted home without regret, birthed and raised the bloody lump alone. At 4 a.m. while all slept, after nursing with swollen breasts, scrubbing the cramped studio floor with a cold-soaked rag till her hands bled—she vowed it a hundred times over, teeth gritted raw. She'd raise her child more upright and proud than anyone, no matter what.
The moment baby Woochan first clearly called "Mom." At kindergarten's fall sports day, crossing the finish line dead last but running to her with arms wide and a sunny grin. Clutching excellent report cards, peeking cautiously for her reaction while secretly puffed up inside—those dear, tiny moments had been the sturdy pillar straightening her crumbling spine. No man's arms, no ten-thousand-won bill to her name— with this one kid, she could endure anything silently.
"Hoo..."
A frail sigh slipped through her pale lips, thread-thin. When Woochan got that special scholarship notice to Taesung School, she'd felt like she owned the world. Bursting into tears right at the register, embarrassing herself in front of strangers. Just a few more years of grit, and her son could soar to a dazzling world she'd never even glimpsed. That firm faith had more than offset her threadbare daily grind.
She never dreamed it'd twist into this miserable, filthy mess.
For a flash, a black, venomous resentment slithered through her mind like a snake. If Woochan hadn't gotten into that school. Hadn't become some flashy scholarship kid. He never would've crossed paths with that devil in "good friend" disguise who invaded their home— For a split second, she resented her son Woochan like mad.
The horrific blame bubbled to the surface of her consciousness, and Ayoung's eyes flew wide like she'd been burned. Her heart plummeted to her feet; her fingers clutching the mart vest went ice-cold. She shook her head frantically like a madwoman. No. That's not it. Sorry, Woochan. Mom must be crazy. The apology she couldn't voice melted bitterly in her throat. The mere fact she'd resented her life's sole purpose—her cross—for even a second made her blood roil with nausea. Ayoung bit her lower lip till it bled, desperately suppressing the vicious self-loathing surging from her solar plexus.
Thud. A dull clunk as an item hit the counter yanked her drifting gaze reflexively down. Beep, bleep. Her hand snatched the scanner on autopilot, moving mechanically without emotion. Scan, slide to the bag, take the card, process payment, rip the receipt long and hand it over.
"Thank you. Have a good day."
Even half out of it, her mouth and hands flowed flawlessly. Labor repeated tens of thousands of times, detached from her frayed mind, doing its duty. A sad inertia etched deep into bone and muscle.
Lunch break followed. Hunched on a plastic chair in the humid break room corner, she popped her cold lunchbox lid—but her chopsticks hovered over the rice forever. Forcing a plain spoonful, it tasted like chewing sand. Then, out of nowhere, a voice from beside her.
"Woochan's mom, you okay today? You look wiped."
The chatty coworker auntie's casual question made Ayoung turn her head a beat late.
"Oh... no, I'm fine."
"Nah, when we switched earlier, your eyes were unfocused, totally spaced out."
"Sorry. Didn't sleep well last night."
She wrenched up a awkward smile, knowing without a mirror how wretched it looked.
The auntie waved it off like nothing and pivoted to her nosy usual.
"But that smart son of yours—heard he got into Taesung on special scholarship?"
"...Yeah."
"Man, must be proud. Envy you. My brat won't study no matter how much I dump on academies, fuckin'..."
"Thanks."
A rote, dry reply on reflex. The coworkers' bustling chatter buzzed her ears, but no words stuck—scattering into air. Ayoung stared down at her half-eaten lunch, barely hanging a bitter smile on her lips. Yeah, proud as hell. My irreplaceable boy, wouldn't trade for my life. But that precious son's best friend—that motherfucking bastard—
Clatter. Her trembling fingers lost grip; chopsticks clanged loud on the tray. Fearing notice, she hurriedly shoveled cold rice into her mouth.
Back at the register. The lazy afternoon mart was far quieter than lunch rush, a calm air drifting. Items sporadically rode the black conveyor; she grabbed them on mechanical instinct, shoving under the red scanner light. Beep, bleep.
And the next instant. The small item's feel in her hand felt jarringly off. A very light, thin rectangular coated paper box. Ayoung's unfocused eyes dropped unconsciously to her palm.
Ultraslim condom pack.
Her breath caught; fingers gripping it froze like ice. Heart pounding, she jerked her head up stiffly on reflex. And there, beyond the counter, Jinho stood cockily. Neat uniform shirt under a casual branded jacket. Credit card loosely pinched between index and middle finger, one elbow lazily on the empty cart, leg crossed. Wearing the mask of the world's most innocent kid, he looked down at dazed Ayoung and curled just one corner of his mouth in a sleazy smirk.
