Smack, smack, pop. The lady opened her rouge lips wide and chomped down on her pink gum. Her permed hair coiled in little ringlets, and she kept them away with a polka-dotted headband. She arched her tattooed eyebrows as she surveyed the classy heels, tight fitting wedding dress, and the wet, coal black hair, all which left a trail of slush inside her motel.
“You need a room?” She asked the obvious.
“Yes, please.”
“Room 204,” the woman said, and tossed over a bent, rusted key. Then she cringed her forehead as she reluctantly asked again, “You need one too?”
“No, I’m with her,” Won Soo replied. Tae Yeon whirled around in surprise. She glared in anger, picked up the key, and stalked off to the stairway.
As soon as she opened the lilac door, a saccharine scent plagued her nose. Several heart shaped lamps lit the room, and a circular water bed decorated with pink ruffly pillows greeted them. It was a love motel.
“I told you to stay in the car,” she snapped, as she plopped her weary body on the bed.
“So you did,” he acknowledged nonchalantly.
“So why didn’t you?”
“Because you told me to.”
“Are you psychotic?” She asked angrily, staring up at her own reflection. Someone had installed mirrors to the ceiling, and Tae Yeon had a vague idea why.
“Probably, but so are you,” he said, all the while unbuttoning his coat, and then his dirty, hole wracked shirt.
“What do you mean? And why are you undressing?” Tae Yeon hugged her bare shoulders.
“I mean, you come to me, a random stranger, and tell me that you want to get away from the elite society you’re trapped in. Because, all the social expectations and restrictions suffocate you, but in reality you’re actually perpetrating them on yourself,” he said. Tae Yeon looked at him in confusion.
“When you tell me to stay in the car, it’s because you feel an acute sense of shame being associated with me. You’re up there, and I’m down here. You can talk to me, tell me your inner story because I’m not part of your circle, and you don’t have to worry about any rumors. Also, you like to delude yourself that you’re not like your peers, that you don’t think the world of yourself, that you don’t think you’re better just because you happened to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth, “and here he paused as he said in a low whisper, “but you know the truth, deep down. You’re just the same, yet you can’t deal with it. So you’re stuck in this mental prison, this cycle where you disassociate yourself from that ugly nature when in reality, you perpetuate it. And, it goes on, and on-” Tae Yeon didn’t even realize what happened until she saw the red, angry flare on his bearded cheeks. She stood there, drawing in huge gasps of breath, watching him watch her with that incomprehensible expression.
“And, I would know that cycle the best,” he finished. Then he pulled off his trousers and walked over to the restroom. She could see his naked form through the clear stalls, and turned away, not sure if the disgust was for him or for her.
***
She stared at her reflection. Those black locks that spread around her pillow, just like Medusa. She had affirmed and reaffirmed that he could not be right. That he didn’t know enough about her to base those assumptions. That she had never once felt that way at all.
His snores floated from the floor to her ear. It was a soft sound, comparable to the swish of a door upon plush carpet. A comforting sound.
She sat up in anger. How could he say that to her? After all she had done for him? That hundred dollar bill, and, she hated to seem cheap, that five dollar coffee too. She had helped him, humored him, and even pitied - she pitied him. How gross and superficial the word resounded in her ears now. Pitied. Pity. Pitiful.
Tae Yeon pulled the scratchy blanket off her as she quietly rose from the water bed.
She looked in wonder at his sleeping face. What a difference a beard could make. He looked much younger, his chin a smooth stubble and his pretty, dark eyelashes that fluttered. Although he was not handsome, he did emit a rather manly air, and for the first time she felt a slight burning sensation in her ears. It spread to her cheeks, a slow tingling caress that made her uneasy. She jumped up to return to her bed. In her haste, she stepped on a dirty rucksack.
Tae Yeon studied it, when had he brought a shoulder bag with him? Only remnants of the brown leather remained, and the buckles cluttered uselessly. Peering inside, she discovered a roll of bills tightly bounded, some extra, ratty clothes, and a thick stack of papers fastened together.
The document eventually won her full attention for its surprising neatness. The edges were crisp and the papers as clean as if just printed. Park Won Soo must have taken special care of it. In the center, bold black letters typed: Pig or Fish.
With casual interest, she flipped the title page and began to read. She read, and read, and read so much that she was not reading, but breathing and living in the story itself. The start of the novel began with a man who had just finished medical school and had began to apply to certain hospitals. In this way, he met an eccentric woman named Ji Soo who changed his whole perception on life. The more in love with her he fell, the more guilt accrued to his nine year fiance Hyo Eun. Eventually, he faced the decision between the two women - and in a surprise twist for Tae Yeon - ended up marrying Hyo Eun. As a result, Ji Soo killed herself, and he lived with the consequences of his actions.
It was such a compelling, complicated novel, one that uncomfortably forced readers to delve into the man’s dilemmas. Tae Yeon thought it one of the best novels she had ever read. In fact, lost in the whirlwind of her own emotions, she did not realize that Won Soo had woken up until he snatched the manuscript away.
“Didn’t your high and mighty parents ever teach you common manners?” He asked harshly as he cautiously placed the manuscript back in his tattered bag.
Tae Yeon ignored the comment and said excitedly, “You could publish this. You’d already have your funds for Istanbul, ten times, no twenty times over.” She followed him around as he continued to pack his items. The curtains glowed from the early sunlight outside.
“Why aren’t you publishing it?” She persisted, and finally grabbed his arm to make him look at her.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re the most nosiest and inquisitive person they’ve ever met?”
“No,” she replied flatly.
“Well you are,” he said, and pulled his arm free. He leaned down to pick up his threadbare coat, and sighed upon looking at her resolute face. “You’re not going to let this one go, are you?”
“No.”
“It’s not mine, that’s why I’m not publishing it.”
“Then who’s is it?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered darkly before leaving the room of rumpled blankets and sweet, sick odor.
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