“The guy she met today earns ₩40 million a year, works twelve-hour shifts, and said if housing prices keep rising he’ll leave the office even later.” My kid sister cracked open a beer, cheeks flushed. When I tried to signal restraint, she drew a finger across her throat.
“Under ₩40 million? Zero future. These days that’s just trash.”
The bar’s fluorescent tubes flickered. I speared a fried dumpling and put it in my mouth. The oil scalded my tongue, then left no taste at all. After twenty-nine years under the same roof, it was the first time I’d heard the word trash. In my palm, the contacts in my phone seemed to blacken and curl into smoke.
I excused myself to the restroom. As soon as the narrow stall door clicked shut, I lowered the toilet lid and sat. When I unlocked my phone, a message from my older cousin glowed: ‘Anyone decent this time?’ I opened the dating app instead and went to the filters. The default read annual income over ₩30 million. The figure suddenly looked shabby. My finger trembled. ₩50 million, ₩70 million, ₩90 million, past ₩100 million. ₩150 million, ₩200 million, ₩300 million. I didn’t stop.
At ₩10 billion the screen flashed. CEOs of conglomerates, third-generation chaebol heirs, Wall Street financiers surged like a tide. My sister’s voice echoed inside my skull: Trash.
Beyond the stall door, laughter and clinking cans braided together. Then I understood: this wasn’t a choice; it was a confession. That we—I—cannot love a man without money. More precisely, a bottomless suspicion that we are unqualified to love anyone who has none.
I looked in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot. I scrolled through my contacts until I found my ex-boyfriend from three years ago. He hadn’t worked for a big firm, but back then he seemed fine. Back then. Now even the version of me who loved him felt unbelievable. The day he, earning ₩40 million, said, “Let’s get married,” why did I silently shake my head? At the time I told myself, Not this man, but looking back the phrase was Not this level.
We walked to the subway. On the platform my sister suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Unni, am I really a bad person?”
I couldn’t answer. Only the station’s LED clock marched on, bold and indifferent. We caught the last train and went home. I lay in my room; the ceiling seemed to ripple. I opened the app again and reset the filter to ₩100 million plus. The matched profiles appeared: all handsome, brilliant, wealthy—and something felt hollow.
By three a.m. I lowered the filter. ₩30–50 million, then ₩70 million down to ₩40 million, finally back to ₩30 million or more. Still, we may never clear even that bar. Still, we keep adding the word still. Still…
My sister and I are living by touching taboo. And someone may call us trash.
Still, still, still…
I turned off my phone. Dawn crept through the window. The street was empty, silent. That silence felt ready to swallow us—our desires and all.