“Could I… order everything on this page?”
Arin flipped the plastic menu, one manicured finger tapping the list: two servings of pork belly, extra rice, steamed egg, soybean-paste stew—₩37,800. My balance: ₩42,000. I swallowed air. On her wrist an Omega Seamaster gleamed; on her feet Gucci loafers flaunted their ₩800,000 price tag even over thick socks. I was still dating with my bank balance hovering in my skull like a neon sign.
We had first met in the graduate-school lounge. She, a returnee from Swiss boarding school; I, an intern juggling part-time gigs to pay tuition. The world had already been sorted into floors.
Low table, lower self-esteem
End table, second floor of the tarp joint. Arin lowered her voice.
This place… Dad used to bring me when I was little. I remember him wiping my mouth while I inhaled black-bean noodles.
Lie. Her father owns a whole Itaewon high-rise. She had simply descended to the stage I could afford, so I could console myself. What I felt then was not gratitude.
How kind of you. How shabby of me.
Under the table her hand drifted down, brushing my knee on the chilly concrete. Cold, then hot, then cold again—contact lasting less than three seconds. Yet in those three seconds we confirmed each other’s class.
Under the table, the sound of ₩42,000 burning
Her fingertips inched three centimeters up my calf—slow enough that I had to hold my breath to feel it. While one fingertip slid across my skin I heard the exact sound of ₩42,000 melting.
…is this okay?
She whispered. She was afraid I’d overshoot my ₩42,000 ceiling; I wondered whether she worried out of concern or pity. When her fingers reached my knee I remembered the watch on her wrist cost over twenty million. Still, her hand trembled.
The ₩40,000 abyss
Jun-ho, 29, account executive at an ad agency. Met Yul on Instagram—chaebol blood, Birkin on her arm, Rolex Daytona on her wrist. Wine: ₩280,000 a bottle. Jun-ho lied, said he’d left his card at home.
I’ll be the tagger tonight. You just drink.
Yul laughed, already knowing why he was dodging the bill. She ordered a ₩1.2 million champagne instead. Jun-ho’s hand shook. That night, hunched over a toilet, he typed,
Sorry. Next time I’ll take you somewhere better…
No reply; she walked out. Valentino heels that would never fit inside his credit limit. On Tinder he wrote “responsible spending.” No one asked what he meant.
The scent of class
Why do we obsess over a lover’s net worth? Not simple pride. She was born holding money I can never earn in a lifetime. Before that fact I was powerless.
There is a darker desire. We expect the rich to be generous. We want them to pay, to put us in “debt,” so we can make demands: I spent this much because of you—a subtle IOU. But they know. So they order pricier wine, drag us to more extravagant places. You can only owe a debt you can never repay. Then we expose the shabby craving on the far side of self-love.
You have been there, too
Each time you opened your wallet you checked the other’s eyes, watched them appraise your worth. To hide poverty you led them somewhere dearer; or, conversely, somewhere cheaper, declaring I’m not rich like you.
That night Arin smiled when I paid. The smile held. We already knew each other’s class. She knew the ₩42,000 I had just spent, and she governed me with that knowledge. I tried to govern her with the same amount.
What were you hiding that night?
Actually, I might be richer than you.
Have you ever said it? Or perhaps, I’m not dating you for your money.
Before money we hide truth, and that hiding ruins love. That night we guarded our pride; love leaked out through its cracks.
Are you still hiding in that crack? Or have you sealed it and turned away?
Do you still check your balance before meeting someone today?
We trespassed only as deep as our wallets
That night, while Arin’s fingertips crept three centimeters up my calf, I heard ₩42,000 melting away. And we trespassed only as deep as the thickness of each other’s wallets.