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“Yujun has friends other than you and me? That’s not acceptable,” I joke. “If I get desperate, I’ll call you.”
“Deal.”
After we seal our agreement with a pinkie shake, we finish our meal. The fried corn balls taste like cheese-filled croquettes and they are miles better than the cheese-corn cups at the food truck near work, but I tell myself it’s because it’s fried. Everything tastes better fried.
After Sangki and I devour our dinner like a pair of animals that haven’t been fed in a week, I snap a photo of the food truck and send it to Yujun.
ME: This was good. We should eat here when you get back.
I don’t get an immediate reply, so I tuck my phone away and give Sangki a shake of my head. He fake pouts and texts his own message to Yujun. I sometimes wonder if Sangki and I exacerbate our longing for Yujun by spending time together. The two of us missing him is why we started hanging out. Sangki said it was his duty as Yujun’s closest friend, but having spent six weeks with Sangki, I’ve come to realize that our connection is the man himself. When we’re together, it almost feels like we can summon a solid manifestation of Yujun. Almost.
Thinking about him makes my heart ache. The red string of fate he says has connected us since before we were born has wound itself so tightly around my heart that sometimes the pain of missing him becomes a physical hurt. It’s best to focus on other things. I buy two more beers and return to Sangki.
“I know that nakhasan is nepotism, but what is hannam? There’s a Hannam district. Does it mean rich people?”
Sangki’s eyebrows crash together as he takes the beer. “Did someone call you a hannam?”
“No. Chaeyoung called the other office workers hannams.”
“She meant the men. Hannam is short for hannam choong, or Korean male parasite, and it is an insult basically meaning misogynist.”
“I’ll remember that for the future. How about molka?”
His mild confusion turns to alarm. “How do you know that word?”
“Is it a curse word?”
“No. It means secret videotaping and generally of a person in their private time. If that’s happening at your office, you better report that to your mom.”
“Actually, Chaeyoung and Soyou were saying that the absence of molkas was the one good thing about the office in between the nepotism and the misogyny.”
Sangki grimaces. “Aigoo. That’s not good. That’s like me saying that at least the sasaengs leave me presents.”
I pop open my beer and glance over to the small huddle of fans about twenty yards away. Feeling cranky, I point my phone camera in their direction. One of them turns away, but the other two stare defiantly.
Sangki nudges me to leave them alone. “How are you getting along with Yujun’s mother?”
One other curious cultural difference is that in Korea, people refer to others by relationship status. It’s not Choi Wansu, but Yujun’s mother. It’s not Park Hyunwoo, my boss, but Bujang-nim, because those words identify that person’s placement in your life. To Sangki and all the other people who know the Chois, Wansu is Yujun’s mother. That’s my problem. That’s why I’m sitting here with Sangki and not with Yujun and Sangki. That’s why Yujun is in another country and has been for the last six weeks. That’s why life is so very awkward at home. Choi Wansu is my mother, my boyfriend’s mother, and my real boss. In the six weeks since we’ve been alone together, she and I haven’t made much progress on the relationship front.
Whereas I know that Ellen gets upset easily, cries often, laughs loudly, and forgives readily, Wansu is a mystery. She only knows me from reports my adoptive mother sent her over the years. I only know her from passing comments Yujun has made.
I set my phone in my lap. “It’s going.”
Sangki makes a small noise of encouragement. “Choi Yujun’s mother isn’t known for her warmth.”
“It’s not that, actually. It’s that she keeps giving me things. I have a whole room full of bags from Louis Vuitton, Dior, Chanel. I think I could fund a small school with the things she’s bought for me in the past six weeks. Our relationship can’t be leather goods and fancy clothes.”
“It could.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Some people’s relationships are like that. Their parents buy things to make them happy or quiet or compliant.”
“Let me rephrase, then. I don’t want it to be like that. I know we can’t be Ellen and Hara, but I don’t want it to be sponsor and Hara.”
He grimaces. “Don’t use ‘sponsor.’?”
“Why not?”
“Because it means someone who pays for things in exchange for sex.”
“Oh. Yeah, no. Not that.”
“What are some things you would do with Ellen?”
“We watched home decorating shows together. We picked wildflowers once illegally to make these art pieces we’d seen a decorator do.”
