I walked past it

I did not go in.

I stood across from the Jongno 3-ga police box with the number saved on my phone and I did not cross the street. The rain was thinning. A man inside the booth was eating something out of foil, and I could see him through the glass. He would have been kind, probably. That is not why I did not go in.

I did not go in because if I say the word out loud to a uniform, I will have to keep saying it. To Bae Yu-jin on Tuesday. To whoever she brings into the room. Then I will not be the woman who pours tea. I will be the woman who was offered a clause. I want one more night of being the woman who walked out.

Lee Joon-ho called it courtesy. My own word. The word on the laminated card in every suite. The word I say when a guest leaves a robe on the floor and I still fold it and hang it back. He put my vocabulary around my body and slid it across the marble. I could feel the paper shake under my hand. I could feel twelve people in the lobby see my lanyard shake and not know why. I left the document on the table. I want that on the record, even if no one else ever reads it.

The stenographer — I do not know whose she was, or what she heard, or whether she will remember me. I keep thinking about her hands on the keys.