My Wife Masturbated on the Day of My Funeral
The phone rings.
It's vibrating.
Buzzing on the shelf next to the bed.
It rings before I even open my eyes.
I reach out.
I check the screen.
It's Lee Jiwon.
"Taeyoon, when are you coming?"
Her voice is low.
Either she cried a lot, or she stayed up all night.
Maybe both.
"I'm leaving now."
"Hurry."
That's all.
The line goes dead.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
I put on the mourning clothes I took off yesterday.
The black trousers draped over the back of the chair.
The shirt hanging from the closet doorknob.
They are the clothes I shed after returning from the funeral hall last night.
They're wrinkled.
It can't be helped.
I wash my face with cold water in the bathroom.
I look in the mirror.
A twenty-two-year-old face.
And yet, I am fifty-two.
An urge to smack myself on the back of the head flashes through me.
I let it pass.
I head outside.
I hail a taxi.
The roads are empty this early in the morning.
The car speeds along.
Street trees blur past the window.
There is no trace of grief anywhere.
Just a cool, empty chill.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
When I arrive at the funeral hall, the funeral procession is just about to begin.
I spot Jiwon.
She is wearing a black hanbok.
A single white ribbon pinned to her hair.
A bare face.
The puffiness under her eyes is even worse than yesterday.
"You're late."
It isn't a reprimand.
Just a statement of fact.
"The taxi got caught in traffic."
Jiwon glances at me once, then looks straight ahead again.
She doesn't ask anything else.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
As the chief mourner, I am the one to carry the funeral portrait.
I hold the frame with both hands.
It has a black wooden border.
It isn't heavy.
It's just a photograph.
But the moment I look at the face in the picture,
I freeze.
It's my face.
Of course it is.
This is the funeral of this body's father.
Naturally, Ha Minseok's portrait is there.
There is nothing strange about Ha Minseok's face being on the funeral portrait.
Except that face is me.
My fifty-two-year-old face is staring back at me.
It has been retouched.
He looks sleeker, slightly younger.
His hair is neatly styled.
I am holding my own funeral portrait.
With the hands of this body.
Something twists deep inside me.
I should find it funny, but I don't.
I should feel sad, but I don't.
It is simply grotesque.
I am performing the most bizarre act of filial piety in the world.
Walking while carrying my own funeral portrait.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The procession begins to move.
I take my place at the front.
I hold the portrait.
I walk.
Footsteps follow behind me.
The mourners.
I see some of Taeyoon's college classmates.
Four of them.
Dressed in black, they follow behind.
They are unfamiliar faces to me.
But they must be faces this body remembers.
Our eyes meet.
A sensation triggers at the back of my forehead.
Text appears.
Relationship: Business Administration classmate · Club senior-junior · Frequent drinking buddy
Recent Psychology: Awkward · Doesn't know how to comfort me · Feels slightly guilty for not keeping in touch
I move on to the next face.
Relationship: Business Administration classmate · Little interaction · Acquainted through Serin
Recent Psychology: Nervous due to lack of experience with funerals · Wondering why Serin isn't here
It works.
All four of them are normal.
The text scrolls up and vanishes.
The people my son knew.
It functions perfectly.
I have confirmed once again that the ability is still active.
I keep walking, holding the funeral portrait.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Serin isn't here.
I don't even need to scan the crowd to know.
She's absent.
I had known since last night when she said, "Taeyoon, I hope the funeral procession goes well."
Considering what happened last night, it's not hard to understand why.
A brief, cynical sneer crosses my mind, then fades.
That's all.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Mid-procession, Jiwon comes to walk beside me.
Her black hanbok catches the morning light.
Her steps are quiet.
Her hands hang loosely at her sides.
Her left hand reaches toward her right, then hesitates.
She was about to touch her ring, but stopped.
Our eyes meet.
The sensation at the back of my forehead tries to trigger.
Text attempts to rise.
Nothing appears.
It's a total blank.
It just worked for Jung Jaehoon.
It worked for Min Jihye too.
All four of them were perfectly normal.
Yet, for Jiwon, it still won't display.
She is the first person whose status window opens but remains completely empty.
I look straight ahead, holding the portrait.
I don't stop walking.
I stop trying to analyze it.
This is not the place to dwell on it.
For now, I walk.
I bury the question deep down, leaving only a tiny ember of curiosity.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The crematorium.
There is a procedure.
The staff member explains it.
We listen.
The doors open.
My body goes inside.
To be precise, Ha Minseok's body goes inside.
That body used to be mine.
Fifty-two years.
A constitution where even a single drink would turn my ears red.
A right shoulder that sagged slightly lower than the left.
Calluses on my knuckles.
From shaking so many hands.
The doors close.
While we wait, the memory returns.
The accident happened in an instant.
It was on the Gyeongbu Expressway.
A rainy road.
The moment I realized the steering wheel wasn't responding, the guardrail was already in my field of vision.
That was the end.
In the blink of consciousness.
There was no external trauma, no pain.
I have no memory of the hospital.
By the time I opened my eyes at the funeral hall, I was already in this body.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Jiwon drives us home.
The radio volume is low.
It's barely audible.
I can't tell if it's the news or music.
Both of us look out our respective windows.
There is no conversation.
Outside, daily life goes on.
A lunch delivery motorcycle.
An elderly person crossing the street.
The smoking area in front of a convenience store.
It's a world no different from yesterday.
Even without me in it.
Jiwon's left hand rests on the steering wheel.
Her ring gleams faintly against the wheel.
I don't look at it.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
We are home.
I take off my shoes the moment we step into the entryway.
I pull out my phone.
Notifications have piled up.
I scroll through them one by one.
A text message.
I see a name.
Park Hunu.
I don't know him.
I don't recognize the name.
Initials: P.H.W.
The profile picture is a man.
He looks to be in his early twenties.
I open the message.
He's talking about the funeral.
Apologizing for not being able to attend.
Anyone sending a text like this must be fairly close.
I try to trigger the sensation at the back of my forehead.
No text appears.
It only works when I see their face.
I close the window.
I don't know if I even need to find out who he is yet.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The kitchen table.
Jiwon pulls out the envelopes.
White envelopes.
Condolence money.
She lays them out like receipts.
She takes out a notepad.
And a ballpoint pen.
I sit across from her.
The fluorescent light overhead hums to life.
It's a harsh white.
A different kind of cold from the chill of the columbarium.
"Manager Kim Seokhwan, three hundred thousand."
Jiwon opens the envelope and checks.
She writes it down on the notepad.
Name.
Amount.
"Director Park Jaeho, five hundred thousand."
She writes again.
I watch.
The pile of envelopes shrinks.
The notepad fills up.
Jiwon's hands are efficient.
The hands of someone organizing.
Precise, waste-free movements.
"This person..."
Jiwon pauses, holding one of the envelopes.
"An old acquaintance of Minseok's... three hundred thousand."
I look at the name.
An old acquaintance, and he only gave three hundred thousand.
I gave that bastard a million won.
For his own father's funeral.
That was seven years ago.
And I only get three hundred thousand back.
Relationships are re-evaluated in the face of numbers.
Funerals are honest.
Jiwon writes.
Name.
Amount.
Next envelope.
I look at her hand.
Her ring glints under the fluorescent light.
Her left ring finger.
A thin platinum band.
No embellishments.
She spins it with the tip of her finger.
Mid-note.
She spins it again.
It isn't conscious.
It's a habit.
We are sitting like a married couple.
On opposite sides of the table.
Organizing envelopes.
Under the fluorescent light.
Except we aren't a married couple.
The thought briefly crosses my mind.
It doesn't miss its mark.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The organizing is finished.
Jiwon gathers the envelopes and folds the notepad.
She stands up.
"You should go back to school tomorrow."
"Yes."
Jiwon wipes down the table.
Once.
Twice.
She places the dishcloth on the sink.
She walks down the hallway.
Her bedroom door closes.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
A dark room.
I stare at the ceiling.
Sleep won't come.
I check the clock.
It's the middle of the night.
I toss and turn.
I kick off the blanket.
It's hot.
I get up to get a drink of water.
The hallway is dark.
A long shaft of streetlamp light stretches in from the living room.
I walk quietly, muffling my footsteps.
I reach Jiwon's room.
The door is open.
Halfway.
Light spills out onto the hallway floor.
I hear a sound.
Breathing.
It's heavy.
Short, sharp inhales, followed by long, drawn-out exhales.
Is she crying?
It is the day of the funeral procession, after all.
I step closer.
One step.
Two steps.
No.
She isn't crying.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
I can see through the crack in the door.
Jiwon is on the bed.
Her stomach is exposed.
She isn't wearing a bra.
Her breasts are bare.
One of her hands is down below.
"Mmh... haah..."
A breath escapes.
From between her lips.
Her eyes are closed.
Her brow is furrowed.
I lived with this woman for seven years.
I never knew she could make a face like this.
Or make these kinds of sounds.
When I touched her, a single, quiet "Mmh" was all I ever got.
With her lips pressed tight.
Holding her breath.
That was it.
Now, she is entirely different.
Jiwon's other hand moves up.
She squeezes her breast.
Flesh spills out between her fingers.
She pulls at her nipple.
She twists it.
"Ah... nnh..."
Her groans grow louder.
It's the sound of someone who has given up trying to hold back.
Because she thinks she's alone.
Her hand moves faster.
Her pajama pants slide down.
Jiwon pushed them down herself.
They must have been suffocating her.
I see her fingers.
They are moving between her thighs.
She is wet.
Squish, squish—
A wet, squelching sound echoes.
It carries all the way into the hallway.
Slick—
The bed creaks.
Jiwon's hips arch.
Sinking, then arching again.
The rhythm is erratic.
"Haah... haaaah..."
Her mouth hangs open.
I can see her teeth.
Her head is thrown back.
The veins in her neck stand out.
Sweat beads on her forehead and chest.
Squish—
The sound changes.
Her fingers slide inside.
Deep.
Jiwon's back arches like a bow.
"Ngh... ahh..."
I press my back against the hallway wall.
I need to look away.
I can't.
This twenty-two-year-old body is reacting.
Heat pools in my lower abdomen.
Growing hard.
My body is faster than my mind.
Jiwon's hand moves even faster.
Squish, squish, squish—
"Ah... haah... No..."
She says she shouldn't.
But she doesn't stop.
And then, I hear it.
"Taeyoon..."
I freeze.
"Taeyoon... haah... Taeyoon..."
It isn't just once.
She slips it between her ragged breaths.
Like a prayer.
Like she's begging.
My son's name.
The name of this body.
My wife is calling out my son's name.
While thrusting her fingers deep between her legs.
Squish, squelch, squish—
The more she calls his name, the faster she goes.
Deeper.
Harder.
"Ngh... Taeyoon... No... I shouldn't do this..."
Her protests dissolve into moans.
Her neck twists.
Her head thrashes back.
Her hips lift off the bed.
High.
Her pajama pants are bunched around her knees.
Her inner thighs are slick.
Glistening under the light of the nightstand lamp.
Squish... squelch... squish—
Both of Jiwon's hands move down.
One hand thrusts inside her.
The other rubs her clit.
"Ah— ahh— Taeyoon— haaaah!"
Her voice echoes into the hallway.
She isn't holding back.
She can't hold back anymore.
Squelch, squelch, squelch—
The bed creaks in rapid succession.
Jiwon's entire body shudders.
Her toes curl into the sheets.
Her thighs squeeze shut and fly open repeatedly.
"Ahhh— haaaah!"
A sharp, choked scream.
Jiwon's whole body spasms.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
She freezes, her hips arched high.
Clear fluid spills from between her thighs.
Soaking the sheets.
Slick—
One final wet sound.
"Taeyoon..."
Even after it's over.
She whispers it once more.
Jiwon's body collapses back onto the bed.
Limp.
Her limbs are completely relaxed.
Her chest heaves.
Her breathing is ragged.
She stares blankly at the ceiling.
Her eyes are unfocused.
Thirty seconds.
A minute.
Her breathing gradually slows.
She drapes an arm over her forehead.
Covering her eyes.
Silence falls.
I pull my back away from the wall.
Soundlessly.
One step.
Two steps.
I return to my room.
And close the door.
Without a sound.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
I stare at the ceiling.
My heart thumps.
This twenty-two-year-old heart.
My lower abdomen is still burning hot.
I can't see this woman's status window.
I can see Serin's.
Only Jiwon's remains hidden.
I didn't know why.
I still don't.
But Jiwon was calling out this name.
The name of this body.
Saying she shouldn't.
Even as she refused to stop.
I can't close my eyes.
Tomorrow, the new semester begins.