45th Rule, Fulfilling the Korean Dream for the Foreigner Milky (1)
"So, you were servicing Miss Flora right here, and that's why you had no choice but to ignore me even while I was desperately looking for you? What kind of bullshit is that?"
I knelt under the hem of Deisy's skirt and nodded my head vigorously.
I couldn't bring myself to look up at Deisy's terrifying expression glaring down at me.
"And? So where the hell is Miss Flora, the one you served so diligently?"
"Sh-she just slipped out of the changing room a moment ago..."
With a trembling hand, I pointed toward the outer door and mumbled.
Thud.
Suddenly, a furious-looking Deisy threaded her fingers through my hair and yanked my head back with all her might.
Grip.
The pain of my hair being torn out forced my head up, locking eyes directly with Deisy's chilling glare.
"I-it's true..."
Deisy's face was scarier than a tiger's.
Her overwhelming aura sent chills down my spine, so I waved my hands desperately, pleading my innocence.
Squeeze!
But Deisy just pressed one foot against my bulging pants and said,
"You're not seriously asking me to believe that crap, are you?"
·····Yeah, no way she'd buy it like this.
Her big toe slipped through the slightly open zipper gap. The cool, sticky skin, damp from the bathhouse humidity, clung viscously to my shaft.
With Flora—the witness I needed—now gone, this was the inevitable result.
But since I hadn't lied, all I could do was shed unmanly tears of frustration.
###
And so, my punishment for slacking off in Flora's hideout was cleaning the changing room.
In other words, scrubbing the grimy floor where countless female staff had walked, using a wet mop.
Swish, swish.
The changing room was deserted now that evening had come and the staff had left. The only sound was the TV droning in the lonely atmosphere.
As I mopped, I kept stealing glances at Deisy.
She'd yelled at me to clean properly, but there she was, perched on the platform, munching snacks and watching TV.
"I'll check every inch later, so don't half-ass it. Scrub until there's not a speck of dust left~."
"·····Yes, ma'am."
Thus, bearing the injustice of being accused of laziness, I toiled away unpaid. Then, the TV announcer's voice caught my ear.
Unlike other women, Deisy watched news instead of dramas or variety shows. Guess there's something to being a young mom after all.
I'd noticed it before when the laundry kung fu story came up—her tastes were straight-up old man.
Still, it felt good to catch up on the world after so long. But that tiny, cute figure intently watching the news just didn't match.
·····That aside, when the hell will I finish this?
I sighed at the endless mopping and tuned into the anchor's words.
Then, as if on cue, a story perked up my ears.
As images of foreigners cheering Korean culture filled the screen, Deisy muttered,
"Hmm, looks like K-pop's popular with foreigners these days too."
I teased Deisy, who was dangling her legs from the platform, lost in thought.
"·····What, planning to remarry a foreigner?"
Deisy shot me a sharp look for a moment, then sighed deeply.
"As if. Who'd take a widow with kids? Even Korean guys avoid that."
"What? No way."
I paused mopping and gazed at her steadily, flashing a joking smile.
"Deisy, you're still pretty. Short, sure, but those big tits make up for it. I'm the type who cares more about taste than anything—could overlook a kid or two."
"Shut up and mop the floor! Brat like you talks too much."
Deisy grumbled, angrily dumping the rest of the snack bag into her mouth.
But she seemed pleased, her flushed cheeks glancing my way slyly.
Just as I finished my half-joking, half-serious line and started imagining her naked—
"Oh yeah, you're heading to Miss Milky starting tomorrow, right?"
"Miss Milky?"
"·····Guess you haven't heard."
Milky? First time hearing that name.
Well, Flora said she was next, so this week I'm some other lady's property. But Milky? Sounds more like a milk brand than a gem.
As I pondered if there was a jewel called Milky—
Deisy crunched her snacks and added,
"FYI, Miss Milky's a foreigner too. Full-on European white girl. Super tall, doll-like pretty face."
"·····Really? What's her personality like?"
"Hmm, not sure. Haven't talked much, but her dad's some mafia boss who runs all of Europe, I think?"
Mafia boss's daughter—suddenly, I pictured a tough woman in a leather jacket, cigarette dangling.
Like that squad leader in the army who made us assemble over dialect. What if she shoots first if she doesn't understand the language?
Imagining myself turning into Swiss cheese if I pissed her off, chills ran down my spine.
"Anyway, other staff say Miss Milky's quiet and shy. She dodges even when you try to help. Maybe the language barrier with her being foreign?"
In short, zero approachability.
This is bad. I'm no good with foreign languages either.
Suddenly, I recalled shamefully fleeing when a foreigner spoke to me at the subway gate.
English would be okay, but French, Italian, Spanish—anything I can't understand, and I'd foam at the mouth right there.
I had a bad feeling this week would be hell thanks to the language wall.
Shaking, I mumbled ABCs under my breath and refocused on mopping when—
The news switched to breaking news.
The anchor was making such a fuss, like the end of the world, so I looked up. Holy shit...
It was entertainment news. A familiar face plastered huge on screen.
She was strutting through the airport, soaking up fans' cheers like she owned the place.
Meanwhile, I'm slaving away in this bathhouse because of her.
Knowing her true colors now, I wasn't fooled by that flashy shell anymore.
I tried gritting my teeth and cursing her, but—
"·····Damn, why does her face look so pretty on TV?"
Memories from the staff-only zone earlier flashed back.
Flora's rose scent still faintly lingered in my mouth.
###
After the grueling labor in the bathhouse changing room ended, the next day arrived.
Clack, clack. Click.
Before dawn broke, I woke to sudden footsteps.
"·····Amelia?"
These days, only Amelia visited the toilet this early, so I was sure it was her.
As I rubbed my sleepy eyes and sat up to greet her warmly—
I realized I was wrong.
"Who are you?"
A group of women in suits stood before me. Their intimidating presence, topped with black fedoras, froze my brain.
Having lived in the public toilet, I'd memorized countless women's faces—but these were all strangers.
Unlike the Korean staff, they had feral, cold eyes. Tall, pale-skinned European white women.
"Eyes open? Then quit dawdling and get up. Mistress is desperately looking for you."
Weird. They look like buttery Westerners, but why the kimchi vibe? And speaking Korean so fluently.
Plus that "Mistress" mumbo-jumbo...
Maybe I misheard in my sleep. Yeah, must be.
I half-closed my eyes, forced an awkward smile, and mumbled,
"Sorry~."
I can't speak English.
Very well...
