Power & Sex, and... 27
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"Is it tasty, honey?"
"Yeah. It's good."
Truth be told, it was awful. No idea if she'd even tasted the seasoning or just botched the salt, but one bite was bland, the next too salty—a total disaster of a kimbap roll. Still, her mother just smiled warmly at me as I choked it down.
Eun-mi beamed when I said it was good, set the tray of kimbap on the table, and bounced back to the kitchen on light feet.
"Park, my boy, was the kimbap really that good?"
"……."
I couldn't exactly say it sucked, but praising that bland-salty mess felt wrong too, so I just grinned awkwardly.
"Thank you. That's probably why she likes you so much—your tact."
"……."
"You must've guessed, but the poor girl has never even cooked a meal for herself. My fault for spoiling her, but after that sham marriage to Hwang, she never got a taste for homemaking."
"……."
"Just keep cherishing her like this. I'm begging you."
"Of course, Mother. No need to worry."
Most folks saw Eun-mi as the pampered chaebol heiress, living a life of luxury and bliss. But I knew better—her life was downright pitiful. Raised by nannies while her parents hustled, then trapped in a loveless arranged marriage where even her husband's affection was off-limits. That was her.
After bustling around the kitchen, she finally dashed upstairs to her room, done with prep. Her mother watched with pure delight, a serene smile on her face. It was the kind of everyday scene in modest homes everywhere...
With the upstairs door open, shower sounds drifted down to the living room. Soon enough, she descended the stairs like a girl in her early twenties—coat slung over her arm, jeans and button-up looking effortlessly chic.
"Isn't that a bit much?"
"What?"
"Dressed like that, no one would guess you're past thirty."
"Pfft—who? Maybe in your eyes. Everyone else sees an old lady."
Her figure stayed killer from constant care, but her face? Baby-smooth, like she'd won the genetic lottery. Puckering her lips was straight out of a high school girl's playbook—adorable. If her mom weren't there, I'd have swept her up and peppered her lips with kisses.
All set, my phone buzzed—the call taxi driver was out front. I grabbed the cheap kimbap lunchbox she'd packed, and we headed out. Her mother waved us off with a contented smile and a "Have a safe trip."
To avoid prying eyes, I'd requested the front-right seat facing the wall. It was discreet—most folks wouldn't notice even if the door opened, just another free spot. Downside: staring at hard wall all the way to Busan.
She was buzzing with excitement before the train even pulled out, like a kid on her first ride. May nights were still chilly, so she fogged the window with her breath, drew hearts with her finger, even scribbled "Maru, I love you!"—wiping, fogging, doodling again.
"You look like some country bumpkin riding a train for the first time."
"Yeah, this is only my second. First was last year, coming to see you. This makes two. That time, I was scared stiff—couldn't wait to hit Busan."
Fair enough. No reason for her to take trains, and last trip down, the blackmailer had her too rattled for sightseeing.
Clunk-clunk. The train eased out of Seoul Station. A 4-hour-30-minute night ride—her first real taste of it. Being the guy sharing that milestone? Felt pretty damn good.
"Honey, say 'ahh~'."
Once we passed Pyeongtaek and chatter tired her out, she unleashed her feeding frenzy. I'd eat on my own, but no—she grabbed a kimbap roll, dangled it in front of me.
Her teen-girl grin was too cute; I opened wide, chomping the roll and her fingers.
"Ow! Playful much?"
"Wasn't playing. Thought it was meat. Lol."
She blinked coyly, swatting my shoulder. Nothing about her screamed late thirties—pure charm.
After swallowing, she lit up: "Tasty?" I nodded like it was gourmet, mumbling "Yeah, delicious" around the bite. Grinning, she popped one in her own mouth.
"Eww—salty! What the hell?"
First taste for her, apparently. Face scrunched, she spat it into a tissue from her handbag.
"How'd you eat that? You should've said it was too salty!"
"Eh, for a first try? Plenty good."
Undeterred, she snapped the lid shut. I slyly snatched the container, plopped it on my lap, and started devouring roll after roll.
"Honey, why? It's way too salty!"
"How could I waste food made by my gorgeous wife? Throw it out? No way."
"Then toss it! Why am I like this?"
She pouted, teary-eyed. Her proud creation was inedible even to her—embarrassing, frustrating. But I couldn't let it go to waste. Ignoring her effort over a little salt? That'd be insulting her love.
The pile was massive—double my usual intake. Stomach bloated, chugging water between bites, I'd be up all night digesting.
She watched like she might burst into tears any second. I just grinned, acting like it was the best meal ever, polishing off every grain. It wasn't kimbap—it was her heart.
"Honey... thank you~ I'll love only you forever."
Lid clicked shut; she hugged my arm tight, whispering "I love you" in my ear.
"Silly. You fed me delicious food—I should thank you."
"If I'd met you sooner, I'd be the happiest woman alive."
"We're together now. I'm grateful every second to whoever made this possible."
"Yeah... you're right. This moment, us together—that's what matters."
Time flew; the announcement chimed: arriving at Daejeon Station.
"Back when I rode trains, best memory was garak guksu here."
"Garak guksu... on a train?"
"Yep. Prep before stopping, rush out, slurp it down, sprint back. Some even dashed aboard bowl-in-hand."
"Why go to extremes?"
"KTX does Busan in 2.5 hours now, Saemaeul like this in 4.5. But back then? 7-8 hours Seoul-Busan. By Daejeon, starving."
"Still around?"
"What?"
"Garak guksu spots."
"Sure."
"Let's try it!"
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. But Saemaeul stops just 3 minutes—not easy. I hesitated; she hit me with pleading puppy eyes. Heart melted, we went for it.
Train slowing into Daejeon Station, doors hissed open—I grabbed her hand, bolted to the stall. Ordered quick, snatched the steaming bowls before they soaked. Handed her one; I slurped mine down like soup, chopsticks flying. Bowl empty, I turned—she was delicately blowing on noodles like at a fancy restaurant. I took hers, dashed back aboard.
"How do you finish in under a minute?"
"Told you—it's slurped, not eaten. Your way, you'd barely get half."
"But it is tasty."
Aboard, she ate elegantly, ladylike as ever. I held the bowl steady in case she spilled. Noodles gone, she grinned: "So good!" No fix for the broth—I gulped it, bagged the Styrofoam.
"Must've been fun back then."
"Yeah. Hunger drove us, but now? Fond memory."
"You lived life so vibrantly."
"Everyone did. Just new to you, so it seems fun. I envy your childhood stories sometimes."
"……."
"Kids in my rural village envied my Busan friends' tales of cartoons or pro wrestler Kim Il on TV. Same vibe."
She saw her past as bleak, so I spun long yarns from mine, hoping she'd see it wasn't all doom and gloom—not as tragic as she thought.