Yoon and his wife are the first to arrive. My wife leads them to the living room. I’d been standing by the balcony window, watching the dark sky dump snow. It’s really coming down. In the distance, a man and a woman trudge through the drifts toward the apartment courtyard. I squint, trying to make out their faces, but they vanish from view. There’s no one now. The courtyard is empty again.
Yoon and his wife stand by the front door, snapping the snow off their coats before removing their shoes. My wife takes their coats and hangs them on the rack by the door. Yoon’s wife makes a big fuss about the snow, saying it’s coming down harder than she’s ever seen. When I ask if the traffic was bad, she laughs.
“We took the subway. Driving would have been a nightmare. But this man complained about the subway the whole time.” She chides Yoon playfully, but he doesn’t respond.
Instead, he hands me a neatly wrapped box. “Where did you get this dining table?” he asks. “It’s the nicest one I’ve ever seen.”
The table seats six with room to spare. The top is coral marble, with a long strip of Italian walnut veneer down the middle, and the base is crafted from fine beechwood, carved with geometric patterns. The six chairs are cushioned in premium crocodile leather. To be honest, it’s too big for our apartment. Usually, we keep it pushed against the wall, but since we have guests tonight, we’ve moved it to the center of the living room. The room feels full.
“This is your first time here, right?” I ask.
“Yes,” Yoon says, glancing around the apartment.
“There’s not much to see. It’s too small,” my wife says lightly.
Yoon’s wife is gazing at a small, framed photo on the cabinet. The photo was taken several years ago on our honeymoon. I have my arm around my wife’s shoulders, and we’re both smiling. Look closely, though, and her eyes aren’t on the camera but slightly off, as if she’s staring at something a few degrees beyond the frame. I only noticed that recently. What had she been looking at?
“This table really is amazing,” Yoon’s wife says. “I’ve never seen one like it.”
She takes a seat, and Yoon sits beside her. My wife and I sit across from them. Yoon’s wife urges me to open the gift. Inside the elegant wooden case are several cigars, each wrapped in plastic.
“They’re Cohibas,” he says.
I don’t know what Cohiba cigars are, but I thank him and close the lid. He pulls out his phone, presses his thumb firmly on the keypad, and calls Han. When he hangs up, his wife asks, “When will they get here?”
“They’ll be a bit late,” Yoon replies. “Because of the snow.”
My wife heads to the kitchen to bring out the food. I follow, thinking we’ll need beer. As she fills a plate with squid jerky, peanuts, and crackers, I place a hand on her shoulder. She pauses, presses her lips together, then continues what she’s doing.
“Just bring whatever,” Yoon calls from the living room.
Before the Hans arrive, we start with the beer. Yoon’s a lightweight, but his wife drinks like a pro. We trade small talk. Someone brings up the picnic we all went on recently.
Two months ago, the six of us—my wife and me, Yoon and his wife, and Han and his wife—had gone on a day trip to a lake in the middle of the city. It felt like summer was just ending, but before we knew it, autumn had nearly gone. Han said he wanted to go somewhere—anywhere—before it got too cold. For various reasons, none of us had managed a proper vacation that summer.
“Do you know what I did over the summer?” Han said. “I spent four days holed up at home. The news kept going on and on about ‘record crowds at Gyeongpo Beach!’ But isn’t there a record crowd every summer? And so people kept saying nothing beats staying at home with the AC on, eating watermelon. Well, that’s bullshit. My electricity bill was insane, so I couldn’t even blast the AC. And watermelon—God, I’m sick of it. I ate it every single day. No real meals, just watermelon.”
It was already too cold for picnics, which was exactly why the lakeside hadn’t been busy that Sunday afternoon. The wind was chilly, but the sun made up for it. The sky was that deep, unknowable blue of late autumn. There was fruit, sandwiches, kimbap, beer, and cigarettes—enough to fill the day in quiet peace.
My wife was wearing a navy jacket and beige pants, and underneath, pantyhose.
“These stockings are unbearable,” she muttered. “It feels like my whole body’s wrapped in nylon.”
She still looked uncomfortable even when it was almost time to head home.
“If it’s that bad, why don’t you just take them off?” I said.
“I already did. In the bathroom.”
“The bathroom?”
“Yes, the one in the café over there.”
There was a large café by the road at the edge of the lake.
“You went all the way there?”
“Earlier,” she said, slipping off her shoes to show me her bare feet.
For a moment, I pictured her in the cramped stall—pulling down her pants, peeling off the stockings, putting her pants back on. What about her shoes? It’s a pain to take off your pants while you have your shoes on. Did she take them off one by one—right foot first, then left?
That night, after we came home, we had a simple dinner. Aside from the glass I broke while washing the dishes, the evening was like any other. My wife stared at the broken cup for a while without saying a word. After cleaning up the shards, we watched a comedy show and each had a cup of coffee.
“Your friends are strange,” she said suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re too stiff.”
“What do you mean?”
“They seem stupid,” she said.
She went to bed early.
I stayed in the living room for a long time, picturing her in that narrow stall, slipping her feet one by one out of her shoes to take off her stockings.
While we’re still talking about the picnic, Han and his wife arrive.
“We started without you,” Yoon’s wife says brightly.
Han and his wife take one look at the dining table and their eyes widen.
“Where on earth did you get such a beautiful table?” Han’s wife asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say, feigning distraction.
“Please, sit down.”
The seating shifts slightly. My wife and I sit at the opposite ends of the table, facing each other. To my left are Han and his wife, to my right, Yoon and his. My wife goes into the kitchen and returns with beer, fruit, and a few simple dishes.
“So, where were we?” Yoon’s wife asks, taking a sip of beer.
“What were you talking about?” Han asks.
“Our trip to the lake,” my wife says. “I stopped by the café near the road for a bit. To take off my stockings.”
“I did see you heading that way,” Yoon says. “Why’d you take them off?”
My wife only smiles.
“Well, after lunch, we all did our own thing, didn’t we?” Yoon says. “Some went to see the bridge, some took naps in their car, and someone went to the café to take off her stockings.”
“Oh, the bridge?” my wife says, as if she knows it.
“It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” Yoon’s wife asks me.
That afternoon, after lunch, we hadn’t done much of anything. We just sat by the lake. Han’s wife groaned that she’d eaten too much, that her stomach was about to burst, and asked her husband if he wasn’t sleepy too.
“I’m so sleepy. I can’t keep my eyes open,” she’d said.
The Hans decided to take a nap in their car and headed for the parking lot. When it was just the four of us, Yoon’s wife pointed toward the bridge and said she wanted to go have a look.
The lake was divided into east and west, connected by a narrow channel, with a four-lane bridge crossing over it. Yoon’s wife had pointed not to the bridge, but to the space beneath it.
“There’s nothing down there,” Yoon said. “Just cars passing overhead. Nothing to see.”
Yoon refused to go, but she wouldn’t let it go. I lit a cigarette. I was tired and wanted to take a nap too. The wind picked up, shaking the branches of the Chinese fringe trees. Each time the leaves trembled, the sunlight filtering through them also wavered.
Even after I finished my cigarette, Yoon and his wife were still going back and forth—she insisted on going, he refused. Looking back now, I realize my wife had already gone to the café. Then Yoon’s wife turned to me suddenly, as if struck by a great idea.
“Why don’t you come with me then?” she said. “Let’s go see the bridge together.”
Yoon agreed. “Good idea. You two go ahead.”
I hesitated. I didn’t particularly want to go, and I was too lazy to move. But it felt awkward to refuse, so in the end, I went with her. The café where my wife had gone to take off her stockings was right beside the bridge—but at the time, I hadn’t known she was there.
“The bridge was beautiful, wasn’t it?” Yoon’s wife asks again now.
I nod. My wife lowers her gaze as if tired, rubbing the side of her glass with her fingers. She chats with the people beside her, but she doesn’t look at me. She’s angry. She never thought much of these people. But why?
Then I feel her eyes on me. Our gazes meet. She mouths something. At first, I can’t make out the words. It takes me a moment to realize.
Asshole.
*
“Seriously, where’d you get a table like this?” Han slurs. “I used to have one this nice. Fuck, I’m jealous. You hear me? So fucking jealous.”
He’s always the first to get drunk. None of us really know what he does for work anymore. He’d graduated from a top engineering school, landed a job immediately at a major construction firm, then the company suddenly went under—and so did he.
His wife grabs his arm. For a moment, the mood turns sour. “It’s fine,” she says with a strained smile. “He’s just drunk. You know how men are—they talk like that even when they’re sober.”
“Of course,” the women say quickly. “No one took it the wrong way.”
They reassure her, and she lowers her head as if embarrassed, but she soon smiles and nods. Han starts drumming on the table with his empty cup. My wife gets up, brings another beer from the kitchen, and sets it in front of him.
“You really need to cut down,” Yoon says to Han, half-scolding. “Who knows if you’ll drop dead all of a sudden?” Then he turns to my wife. “Don’t you think so?”
My wife forces a small, polite smile. Still, Yoon’s joking somehow lightens the mood.
“Pour me some more,” Yoon’s wife says. “If there’s anything left—this man’s drunk everything!” She points at Han, giggling.
She’s not wrong. Han’s already gone through five bottles of beer and two bottles of wine all on his own. He’s staggered to the bathroom three times and even thrown up loudly.
Yoon’s wife slips a cigarette between her lips, then glances at my wife. “Mind if I smoke?”
My wife hesitates, then finally says, “Go ahead.”
As I light it for her, I say, “Smoking’s bad for you.”
“Oh, stop,” she laughs. “He says that to me all the time, too. ‘Smoking’s bad for you, quit right now.’” She mimics her husband’s voice, laughing.
My wife stares at her for a moment.
“You don’t smoke?” she asks Yoon.
“He doesn’t,” I answer for him.
“That’s not true,” Han mumbles thickly. “I’ve seen him smoke.”
“Really?”
Yoon’s wife holds a hand to her forehead and shakes her head, sighing dramatically. The gesture makes us laugh. All except my wife. Her face tightens.
I remember Yoon’s wedding. I’d been the emcee that day. My wife and I had been together six years by then, four of those with her family against us marrying. Her family was rich; mine wasn’t. Looking back, it’s such a tired old story—hardly worth retelling.
While I tried to make the crowd laugh with jokes that weren’t really funny, my wife leaned against the wall, watching the bride and groom. She was wearing a sleeveless blue dress with a bright corsage pinned to her chest. “If I show up looking shabby to someone else’s wedding, my own will turn out the same,” she’d said. I still remember exactly how she looked that day. Time has erased so much from my memory, but that image—if anything—has only grown sharper. That winter, her parents finally gave their consent. We married the following spring.
Now she goes into the kitchen and comes back with more drinks and snacks. She sits, sips her beer, and nibbles at a biscuit. While I laugh and talk with the others, I can feel her glaring at me. She’s still angry. I tell myself I’ll find out why after everyone leaves. It’s awkward as hell, but for now, I just need to get through the evening.
*
“Would it be all right if I said something?” my wife says, slowly rising from her seat. “There’s something I want to say to all of you.”
For someone who seemed hesitant, her tone is surprisingly firm, though there’s a tension beneath it, as if she’s holding back.
Everyone stops laughing and talking and looks her way. As if she’s made up her mind, she lifts her glass and downs the rest of her beer.
“What is it?” I ask.
I pray she isn’t about to pick a fight in front of my friends. I can’t stand the thought of being humiliated here. Just then, Han lets out a loud burp, and Yoon’s wife bursts into laughter.
“Can’t you do that in the bathroom?” Han’s wife snaps.
“My husband is having an affair,” my wife says.
Silence. Then she turns to me. “Honey, I know. I know everything.”
She looks calmer now—composed, even.
“What?” I say, thinking I must have misheard.
“I said I know everything.”
The women gasp. “Oh my god.”
Han clicks his tongue.
I’m stunned. Confused. “Why would you say that? Are you drunk?” I ask. It must be some tasteless joke. If she’s drunk, it’s possible.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
I feel a surge of annoyance. Everyone else is darting glances back and forth between us. An affair? For four years, I begged her father for her hand in marriage. Has she forgotten what I went through—the insults, the humiliation? Does she really think I’d go through all that only to cheat on her? Maybe some would, but not me—not after all those years, all that effort. What the hell is wrong with her?
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to ruin the mood. But I can’t just sit here pretending everything’s fine, laughing and talking like nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you out of your mind?” I shout.
“Maybe it’s wrong to bring this up here, but this isn’t just between me and my husband. That’s why—”
“What are you talking about? Do you even know what you’re saying?”
“What am I talking about?” she repeats, looking at me, her voice rising. “You really don’t know? Do I have to say it out loud?”
“What the hell are you talking about? Say what out loud?” I try to force myself to stay calm. I know she’s lying just to humiliate me. I won’t give her the satisfaction of reacting.
“Do you really want me to say who you’re having an affair with?” she asks.
“What? What’s that supposed to mean? Who I’m having an affair with?” I ask quietly, maybe with a trace of sarcasm.
She looks straight at me, takes a deep breath, and says, “Her. You’re having an affair with her.” She hesitates only slightly, but her voice is clear.
What the hell? She’s pointing at Yoon’s wife.
“You’re seeing her. Behind my back. And her husband’s.”
“What?” I say.
“What?” Yoon’s wife echoes, her voice sharp with disbelief.
Yoon looks from me to my wife, then to his own. Han and his wife glance around nervously. Beneath their uneasy expressions, I see a flicker of amusement. Damn it, what’s happening?
“That day at the lake,” my wife says. “I saw you under the bridge with her.”
“Oh, that,” Yoon says quickly, sounding relieved. “I know about that. We were supposed to go together, but I was too tired, so I asked him to take my wife instead.”
I nod. As if disappointed the drama’s over, the Hans whisper to each other, “I knew it.”
But my wife’s face doesn’t soften. It’s hard, unyielding.
“No,” she says. “Do you know what they were doing under that bridge? They were holding each other. Kissing. I saw it clearly.”
“Come on,” Han and his wife say together.
Yoon’s face goes rigid.
“They didn’t care who was around,” my wife says. “God, I can’t get that sight out of my head—not even last night…”
I glance at Yoon’s wife. My wife keeps going.
“I can still see it,” she says, staring into space, past me. What is she looking at?
“She’s lost her mind,” I say loudly enough for everyone to hear. Maybe I really should take her to a hospital to get her checked out.
“Fine,” I say. “I don’t know what you’re so angry about, but you’ve really crossed the line. You shouldn’t lie like this. You’re drunk, fine, but you need to stop. Tell them the truth and apologize right now. This is insane. Do you even hear yourself?”
*
Suddenly, Yoon’s wife covers her face with both hands, choking back tears. “I’m sorry, honey,” she says, turning to Yoon. “I only did it out of curiosity. It wasn’t love—nothing like that. Please, you have to believe me.”
What the hell is happening? My voice trembles as I ask, “What are you talking about? Are you actually saying something happened between us? Between you and me?”
“You liked me. You flirted with me. I knew how you felt,” she says. “It’s all my fault. I should’ve said no from the start. That day too—under the bridge—”
She breaks down, her shoulders shaking. Yoon wraps his arm around her. Han and his wife stare at me, disgust written all over their faces.
“How could you?” Han’s wife says.
“Unbelievable,” Han mutters.
“Has everyone gone mad?” I shout. “You think I’d do that with her? That’s ridiculous!”
Yoon’s wife’s sobs grow louder, and she begins to shudder. Yoon murmurs something into her ear. I keep talking, trying to explain, but no one listens. Why won’t they believe me? Listen to me—it’s a mistake, a ridiculous lie!
Right then, my wife screams, “You asshole!”
She grabs a fork and hurls it at me. It whizzes past, striking the table clock behind me. Both crash to the floor with a loud clatter.
“Well, this is entertaining,” Han says.
“Be quiet,” his wife says sharply.
I turn to my wife, desperate. “Are you out of your mind?”
“You asshole. I can’t believe you. Look at her—at least she’s admitting what she did and asking for forgiveness. But you? You’re pathetic. You’re a pathetic animal!”
“This is all wrong,” I say. “It isn’t true. If it isn’t a misunderstanding, then that woman—she’s crazy. Think about it. You think I’d touch my friend’s wife? You really think I’d stoop that low? Me? Am I that kind of man to you? Is that all I am? How long did we date? I married you even when your father was against it. He humiliated me, said unspeakable things to me. But I put up with it—all of it—because I loved you. That’s who I am! Do you understand? And this is what I get? This is a mistake!” I kick the table leg hard.
“This damned table—your father gave it to you. I still remember what he said. The way he looked down at me, like I was vermin. ‘Will this table even fit in that tiny apartment?’ Then he left—didn’t even bother staying a full minute. Sure, he was rich, I’ll give him that. But his head was totally empty. You know it. You know exactly what kind of man he was. He couldn’t control himself. He was just like this frigging table.”
I know I’ve lost control. My face is burning. Yoon’s wife is still crying. Yoon stands. He looks angry, maybe embarrassed. He glances between me and my wife, and sighs quietly. I have no idea what’s happening anymore. Han asks for more alcohol. His wife strides into the kitchen like she owns the place and comes back with several bottles. The two of them sit watching the four of us with grim fascination, as if at a public hearing.
“Don’t you dare talk about my father!” my wife yells.
“Let’s not go that far,” Yoon’s wife says, trying to stifle her tears. “There’s no need for this. Let’s just stop.” She hiccups between sobs.
“I don’t want to make things worse either,” Yoon says. “My wife regrets it. And it seems your husband does too. Let’s end it here. Come on, let’s go.”
He helps her up. She grips the table for balance, unsteady on her feet, as if she might collapse at any moment. Yoon helps her into her coat. My wife opens the door.
“Goodbye. I hope we never see each other again.”
“Same here,” Yoon says.
Even after the door closes, I can still hear Yoon’s wife sobbing in the hallway. Eventually, the sound fades. My wife returns to the room. Han cracks open another beer. His wife looks at me with sudden seriousness.
“So it’s true?” she asks. “No wonder…”
“Why didn’t you ever say your father-in-law was against you marrying?” Han asks. “You never said a word. You totally fooled us.” Then, lowering his voice, he asks, “So, did you sleep with her?”
“What’s wrong with you?” his wife hisses. She sighs heavily, exasperated.
My wife sits quietly, chin propped in one hand, eyes downcast. I can’t see her expression.
“So,” Han says with a grin, “how does it feel to blow up our little group?”
“Yes, how does it feel?” his wife echoes.
My wife says nothing. She rises, walks to the bedroom, and slams the door behind her.
I turn to the Hans. “Please leave.”
“There’s still some beer left,” they say in unison.
“Go,” I repeat.
They stand, collect their coats from the rack, and glance longingly at the table, the bottles, the scattered snacks.
“It really is a beautiful table,” Han’s wife says. “The most beautiful one I’ve ever seen. What a shame we won’t see it again.”
Han nods.
When they’re gone, I sink into my chair. What happened that day at the lake? Did something really happen between me and Yoon’s wife? No—that can’t be right. We only went to go look at the bridge. My head starts spinning. Then why did she say those things? Did something really happen? No—we just looked at the bridge.
It feels as if I’ve been thrown into darkness. I can no longer tell what I did—or didn’t do. I’m not sure about anything.
All I know is that the table is still before me. It seats six with room to spare. The top is coral marble, with a long strip of Italian walnut veneer down the middle, and the base is crafted from fine beechwood, carved with geometric patterns. The six chairs are cushioned in premium crocodile leather.
*
From a distance, he hadn’t noticed, but up close, he saw how intricate the underside of the bridge was. She made a big fuss, saying she was glad they’d come. Beneath the bridge, on both sides of the narrow waterway, a wide trail ran along the lake. Arched pillars lined the outer edge, supporting the bridge above. Rectangular lamps were fixed at regular intervals between the pillars, and green metal railings lined the gaps to keep people from falling into the water. The design was simple yet imposing.
It was cold under the bridge, where sunlight couldn’t reach. The soft, rhythmic sound of small waves striking the base of the pillars echoed around them. Each time, brown leaves that had drifted from distant trees quivered and spun on the surface.
In the hazy distance, he could just make out Yoon sitting alone, and the Hans walking toward him. The woman beside him leaned close to the railing, stretching her hand as far as she could toward the water.
At the road stood a large café. To the left of its entrance, a huge, comically carved wooden dog statue guarding the doorway. He saw someone entering the café—a woman in a jacket and beige pants.
He suddenly thought of his wife. Where was she now? When had she left the group? She’d been there at lunch, hadn’t she? Then where had she gone?
The thought came to him, swift and strange: Then where am I? Where exactly am I?
No—where are we?
How absurd. He let out a quiet laugh. He put a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and took a deep drag, turning up the collar of his jacket. Soon, even the traces of autumn will vanish from beneath this bridge, he thought. Winter’s coming.
He finished his cigarette, and slowly, he began to walk.
__________________________________
Excerpted from Swell. Used with permission of the publisher, Two Lines Press. Copyright © 2026 by Son Bo-mi, translation copyright © 2026 by Janet Hong.
