"Hey, I'm forty-five today."
At the tail-end of the company dinner, the whisper drifted down the bar’s back alley and still ricochets inside my skull. She had flashed her ID without warning: 1979. I am twenty-seven. Until yesterday she had simply been “sunbaenim.” A respectful smile behind the team leader title, the curve of calf beneath a pencil skirt—nothing more. The second the number surfaced, a detonator blew. 45. I wanted to claw my way into that gap.
A Night That Drank the Number
Senior Hye-jin’s crow’s-feet looked every year of her age. Yet my gaze slid past them—nape, sternum, waist. A body inscribed with years is a pattern you ache to trace in secret.
Why did I have to learn it tonight? If I hadn’t, I’d have laughed it off.
She dabbed her lips with the back of her hand while tilting her glass. Red wine stained. A chill impulse prickled my fingertips. I wanted to touch that mouth, those creased eyes—no, deeper still.
The Two Faces of Stolen Desire
Within the company, a 45-year-old woman and a 27-year-old man. Numbers mercilessly redraw hierarchy. Rank outweighs age. Still, I devoured her with my eyes.
Why?
First, the sweetness of transgression. Society quietly snarls: never overstep a senior. The thrill of sipping forbidden fruit.
Second, the greed for time. She carries decades I have not tasted. Chest, thighs, voice—all steeped in elapsed years. I want to swallow them whole.
Third, envy. The fact that she is not young inflames me. Imagining the youth already behind her is exquisite.
Two Nights Written Like True Stories
Case 1 – Jun-ho, 29, Design Team
Six months ago at the year-end dinner, Jun-ho stumbled on the truth: “leader-level” senior Jeong-min is forty-three. In the hallway outside the restroom during round two, she tucked a fallen lock behind her ear and asked, “Jun-ho, could you help me?”
Under the restroom light, the deep folds of her nape were sharp. Jun-ho curled his fingers. That night he walked her to her door. Nothing happened, but for thirty silent seconds on the threshold his mind twisted itself for a year.
The moment I cross, I’m finished at the office.
Every Wednesday since, he checks the color of Jeong-min’s blouse. White days leave him breathless.
Case 2 – Seung-woo, 31, Strategy Team
Seung-woo would book a meeting room under the pretext of “review sessions” with section chief Mi-yeong. She is forty-six, once divorced. Once, their hands brushed while passing documents. Hers was hot.
“Seung-woo, your hand is shaking,” she murmured, low. He swallowed the words I want to put it inside.
The next day Mi-yeong gave instructions as if nothing had happened. Seung-woo chewed endlessly on the joke-like sincerity hidden behind her voice.
The Tip of a Tongue That Licks Taboo
Why do we sexualize an age gap? The answer is simple: we project an absolutely impossible future. Society refuses to let a 45-year-old woman and a 27-year-old man build one together. And so it burns hotter. Igniting an unrealizable future every instant, we taste our own desire. Soon even a single kiss would shatter the fragile illusion.
The scent of her perfume in the office corridor is already time past. The impulse to bury that time against my chest—that is all.
Thirty Shivering Seconds on the Doorstep
Riding home in the back of a taxi, one thought circled.
What I crave is not her body but the weight of the years she has collected. I wanted to lay that weight on my own body and be crushed.
Tomorrow morning Hye-jin sunbaenim will still be forty-five. I will still be twenty-seven. Struggling to bridge the difference, I realize: if the gap did not exist, I might have felt nothing at all.
The number 1979. The person born that year stands at an untouchable distance. When you dream of that impossible span—what comes to mind right now?