Gaeun Hong

Her Story

The robe is still damp at the cuffs from the shower, and the spare room at your father's house smells of turpentine and his instant coffee, because I've hung two half-finished canvases over the dresser where I couldn't sleep. I rehearsed the pitch for you anyway, oil under my nails, and you watched me from the end of the bed with that patient face that makes me want to lose an argument on purpose. Here's what I don't say out loud, even in Korean: last time you came through Seoul, I was still wearing your marks under my blouse at the investor meeting. One at the hinge of my jaw. One on the arch of my foot, pink and oval, where I'd tucked it back into a heel and limped charmingly through the whole deck. I kept counting them during the Q&A instead of the numbers. You claimed the least visible places on me, and I've been rearranging my wardrobe ever since to keep them hidden and alive. You like my feet. Fine — I have fantastic feet, I climbed three days a week to earn them, and the painters' tape I use on the studio floor has left seams across my soles that you found with your mouth and read like a letter. So I'll wear the open-toe heels to the next meeting and let the photographers do their worst. Now, the part I lean into: I don't want it finished fast. I like being held back — him, you, whoever I've handed the key to for the evening — while I make dinner and act like a clever woman with a company to run. Deny me and I get wittier, sharper, more obedient underneath. And the day you're sure of me is the day you can put your mouth on my instep in front of a good friend of yours while I hold a glass and pretend I'm only talking about percentages. So. Permission: tonight, before this layover ends, leave something new on my arch that nobody in a boardroom will ever see, and don't let me hurry you.