“What the hell is this?” I froze, the Lady Dior box half-open. Folded inside was a slip of paper: the receipt. The delivery address was her old studio in Seogyo-dong; the payer’s name read KIM JUN-HYUK.
“Why ship it there?”
Her hand stiffened for half a second.
“Just… a mistake.”
A mistake—the word she uses when she’s hiding something.
I had known, quietly, all along. Her lingerie drawer had filled with Chanel, Chloé, Stella McCartney. Every payday, tens of thousands vanished under “housekeeping.” A new perfume bottle appeared on her vanity.
“What’s this one?”
“A promo sample from work.”
Each time I said nothing, scrolling through her card history at night: a motel near Gangnam-gu Office, a wine bar in Cheongdam-dong, and—next to the Lady Dior—his name.
Noon in a hotel lobby.
“I’m sorry. It was really just a mistake.”
She wouldn’t meet my eyes. A watch I’d never seen circled her wrist.
“Who is Kim Jun-hyuk?”
“Just… an old friend.”
“Since when do old friends pay for your bags?”
Silence. The lobby piano suddenly sounded deafening.
“Let’s stop here.” She stood; her shoulders trembled.
Back home, conversation died. She showered and lay down. I drank beer on the sofa, searched “Kim Jun-hyuk.” Instagram: same university, recent photo at the café around the corner—our café—cup in hand.
Days later she spoke first.
“I’m sorry.”
“…”
“I just wanted to spend my own money. I didn’t know how you’d see me.”
“So whose is the Dior, really?”
She closed her eyes, brow furrowed.
“Mine. But the bill…”
Sentence unfinished. The bag was her desire, my humiliation.
Today another envelope arrived—same old address, same payer. I left it unopened by the door, waited for her to claim it.
My fingertips slide along the leather strap. The cigar went out long ago; the scent of calfskin coats my teeth.
“240…”
The number rolls on my tongue. Not her size—someone else’s heel. On the bed, the Lady Dior gleams, enamel catching the light. The receipt stays folded.
Kim Jun-hyuk
Card approved
Lady Dior Medium Enamel Heel 240mm
I crease the paper; the smell stains my knuckles. Door handle, shower spray, mattress springs—everything fades.
I tug the strap; the leather’s weight shivers against skin.
“…there you are.”
The heel box shifts; even unopened, new-leather stings my nose. 240 mm—for a foot not hers.
Again I finger the strap. The scent settles coolly on my forehead; my wrist trembles.
“…”
No words—only the quiet, razor-sharp smell of leather filling the room.