A Chimney of a Bar Bathroom
"Noona, you’re really beautiful," Jun-ha said.
His breath, brushing the back of my hand, was hotter than the soju.
He was born in ’98—twelve years younger.
My hand, re-applying lipstick in the mirror, paused.
The word beautiful flew at me with two meanings: a compliment and a dare.
The flicker in his eyes wasn’t simple wonder; it was a hidden question: Can I reach you?
Because the question was pure, it was lethal.
The Smuggled Warmth
That night, the tip of Jun-ha’s finger grazed my wrist.
The elevator doors sealed us in; the numbers climbed to fifteen, one floor at a time.
By the time the doors opened again, we already knew each other’s temperature.
Under the bedside lamp his collarbones showed, shoulders still untouched by excess flesh, speech tossed off like pebbles.
Yet what struck me first was his conviction: the quiet belief that the world was still on his side.
The urge to crack that conviction arrived like an unexpected grief.
Min-su in the Next Room
Two months later, at the after-work drinks, Min-su tilted his glass.
Born in ’96—ten years between us.
He was the new hire; I was the team lead.
Tipsy, he muttered, "This company… it’s too hard."
Instead of answering, I brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
My fingertip slid down to cup his cheek.
Min-su stared, startled.
In his eyes the same faith glowed: This place will forgive me too.
Would I shatter it, or would I sway just as easily?
The Weight of Belief
Why men in their twenties?
They still believe mistakes are allowed.
I envy that belief.
I taste their rawness—those moments when they hesitate yet refuse to lose confidence.
Climbing over those moments, I feel my own weight: I’ve grown this heavy.
Mid-thirties, I am no longer pardoned for errors.
So I attract the ones who still are.
Their youth reminds me that I once stood there, and that the door back is forever closed.
Memory in the Mirror
The last night with Jun-ha.
From the headboard he asked, "Noona, why… me?"
I combed his hair with my fingers instead of answering.
Because you still know nothing.
That night I tried to memorize everything: the faint childish creases at the corners of his eyes, fingernails not yet hardened.
By morning I had left.
The Taste of Taboo
Some scholar calls this desire strophalis—an attraction to the forbidden.
I read the definition differently.
The real danger is that I know I can ruin their beginning.
So I rattle their first step, crack the porcelain innocence, and vanish at dawn.
The Heat That Lingers
By morning the bed is cold.
As I step through the door, the warmth on my wrist fades.
That residual heat hunts for the next body, whispering the delusion this time will be different.
But each time is the same.
When their belief shatters, a sliver of me breaks too.
Still I can’t stop.
I want to hear the sound of belief cracking—that sound is proof I’m still alive.