Listening at the Foot of the Bed
Half past midnight, I sit on the edge of the bed. My hand glides over the cool mattress, searching for my husband’s leg. Even in darkness I can parse his breathing—the faint tremor that rises from deep inside his nose and settles in my palm. I almost wish I could hear a muffled sob; then I could believe this breath isn’t uttering someone else’s name.
Shh.
This is eavesdropping. A wife pressing her ear to her husband’s breath, hunting for the echo of infidelity.
Crimson Lipstick
I open the drawer and pull out the lipstick I keep buried at the back—Cream de Noir, a glaring carmine. I part my lips and paint them. One deep inhale: the scent is a shard of sweet glass in my nostrils. If I press this color to the nape of his neck, what mark would remain? Two hours ago, perhaps three, another mouth may have kissed it away. In the mirror my lips quiver. The red snakes along his throat like a question. Click—the cap snaps shut, and the room answers back. The more you erase a trace, the more legible it becomes.
The Weight of Breath
Yujin isn’t home yet. I sit at the foot of the bed, head bowed toward the door, waiting for his footsteps. First the keys clink against the lock, then the shoes drop, and the smell of beer laced with chlorine drifts in. Next—breath. Tonight it is light. Each inhalation is shorter. With every rise of his ribs I imagine fingertips—not mine—brushing his skin.
"Work dinner ran late," he says. The bedside lamp stays off. In the dark his chest rises and falls. He flicks imaginary dust from his collar; each fleck feels like a stranger’s hair against my fingers.
“Who were you with?”
I ask it silently.
Yujin answers—with his breathing.
Short breaths.
The Diary of a Shadow
Each time Yujin turns, the shadow cast on the wall shifts: the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms, the gaps between his fingers. I reach toward the shadow—it is cold, while his body is fevered. Fever left by another body’s warmth. A crimson print on the sheet—I compare it with my lips. Larger? Smaller? Quivering? When he finally sleeps, I fold the corner of the sheet and slip it into an envelope, as though evidence could be proof.
Touch, Scent, Breath
Three in the morning. Yujin rolls over. My hand meets his cheek: dry skin, no trace of lotion, no perfume—only the stale marriage of cigarette smoke and malt. Somewhere inside that scent might be the sweetness of another woman’s fragrance. I close my eyes and inhale; the ghost of it tickles my nose.
"I’m sorry," he murmurs in his dream. I nod. Answers given in dreams stay in dreams.
The Moment of Crime
Four a.m. I uncap the lipstick again and lightly stamp the nape of his neck. The red blooms; he does not wake. With one hand I stifle his breath, with the other I trace the marks—evidence that someone else was here. I follow the trail and listen to the rhythm of his lungs. At the crest where breath almost breaks, I close my eyes.
Love has vanished, yet love’s traces remain.
The crimson has disappeared, yet the stain persists.
Why I Cannot Speak the End
I watch the back of Yujin’s neck. When morning comes he will leave again, and I will return to the foot of the bed, tracking his breath. We live as if watching each other, as if avoiding each other, as if still in love.
Right now, are you not listening to someone else’s breathing?
To find out whether it calls your name—or another’s.
Tell me, why haven’t you closed your eyes yet?