"Hey, are you sure you’re sleeping with me right now?" Seung-woo’s breath grazes my ear. It’s 2:30 a.m., that hour when even the security-guard’s radio in the next building has quieted. His palm glides up my waist. It burns, yet feels so cold.
His touch is fire, my skin is ice.
The sheets are brand-new—120-thread Egyptian cotton, champagne. Seung-woo fusses over every detail. The light switch rests on a cushion, the water bottle stands pre-opened, the condoms sit not hidden in a drawer but openly on the desk. A perfect arrangement. Yet—my chest stays still. As though all my blood has drained to my toes, I feel no tremor. When his fingers unhook my bra, memories scatter like loose hair.
Last winter, in the old apartment, my husband and I hugged in thick coats to save on heating—
Ah. So he is still the thermometer inside me.
Day 412
Four hundred and twelve days since I signed the divorce papers. Seung-woo was my first since. Six-foot-one, salary in the top 0.1 percent, Gangnam apartment, unhurried, a man who never loses his temper. Every night he bids me good-night; every text bears exactly two emojis; every call is answered within thirty seconds. So many reassurances. Yet the moment I lie down, I turn to stone.
Perfect, but without cracks.
Each time I look into his eyes I think: This man will never hurt me. Perhaps that is why I cannot rush. Faced with someone who refuses to break me, I fear I might crumble first.
What Yujin Told Me
Last week, over wine, Yujin whispered. Thirty-six, designer, divorced five years. She stands in the same place.
“He holds my hand every night, but my heart doesn’t race. He kneels so I won’t be hurt, yet my body keeps… how should I put it?”
She caught her breath, lids fluttering.
“It stays in the dead place.”
The phrase sank like a hook. The dead place. At the tail end of my marriage I lived there daily. After the battles over who would apologize first, who would leave first, I surrendered and lay like a corpse in that bed.
Becoming Ice Water
Seung-woo’s hand crosses my abdomen. When he tries to kiss me I turn my head. The bedroom light glows at 2700 K, careful not to glare. He strokes my shoulder.
“Shall we just sleep tonight?”
Instead of answering I touch the back of his hand. Blood pulses hot, yet it feels frozen. Perhaps my body is still submerged in that night’s ice water.
Memory of That Night
The night before the divorce, we shared a bed one last time. The heater was broken, the window cracked open. We saved on heating. We held each other but neither of us shivered. We had become ice water. Hands clasped, nothing passed between us. Since then I’ve learned that even boiling water will not thaw what’s inside.
In the New Man’s Bed
Now Seung-woo rests his brow against my headboard. He says he can wait until my body answers, that he can melt me slowly. That frightens me more. Without noticing, the word “hatred” has drained out of me, yet the word “desire” has not arrived to fill the hollow. Nestled in his arms, I still see it vividly when I close my eyes: the cold dawn air seeping through the window of the old apartment.
The Spot Still Unmelted
So—still. I don’t push Seung-woo away. I linger in his arms with the refrigerator door left open. I have not heated up yet, yet the fear that once sliced like a cold blade thins little by little. Still ice water, melting drop by drop. Tonight, when his fingertips graze my toes, I whisper:
“Slower, please… not yet.”
He nods and buries his forehead in my hair. On this cold bed we wait until our breaths finally meet. Someday—truly—we will melt.