"I had a dream, that I could fly from the highest swing."

Priscilla Ahn < Dream >

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At exactly one o'clock, Yeseul clicks at the refresh button of her inbox, finding four new incoming emails. 

Not one of them are from Jihye. 

Despite giving her an additional hour of laxity, the lagging speed of her co-worker is unsurprising. Yeseul sniggers at the comedy of the situation, before biting back the slightest hint of kindness she's shown towards Jihye. 

Unamused, Jihye leaves Yeseul with no choice but to take the hard approach from here on.

Rolling her chair back, she stands up for a full-length arm stretch, pushing all of her weight towards the ceiling. A small grunt leaves her rosy lips when the knots in her muscle loosen. Laptop on hand, she takes her leave from the conference room, the hideout for her solo brainstorming session. 

When she arrives at her cubicle area, the workstations around her are empty. The sight is nothing unfamiliar at this time of the day. She walks on indifferently, minding her own business. 

The corner of her lips see an evanescent, upturned curve when nobody watches her from her desk.

Besides going home after a day of toil and turmoil, lunch happens to be Yeseul's favorite part of the day. 

This is a sentiment co-shared by all of Han Weekly's employees. Unlike the majority of Korean workers who are 'rewarded' with the company cafeteria benefit, they are free to dine wherever as they please. And with their corporate office tower connected to the nation's largest Lotte Department Store by only a pedestrian bridge, the answer is as simple as ABC. Yet, the grandeur mall which boasts of international gourmet and cuisine from every corner of the world - a feast for both the eyes and mouth - couldn't be the furthest thing away from Yeseul's mind. 

As groups of boisterous employees on the elevator exit on the third floor to cross the footbridge, Yeseul, left alone to herself, stays motionless in foot and expression until the elevator door closes in. Peace and quiet returns to her fleetingly, and she savors every second of it. 

Walking out of the ground floor lobby, Yeseul keeps her cool and composed exterior when her juniors greet her, but the spring beneath her two feet is close to betraying her. At the main street, with the sun hot on her head, she passes by a dog cafe and a convenient shop, ignoring the watchful gazes that come her way. The Michelin-starred restaurant of the grandeur mall next door should have been the backdrop of the woman with such a fashion statement piece; not the narrow and slightly grubby alley she'd taken the right turn to. 

Giving no attention towards such ridiculous thoughts, Yeseul steps right into a single-storey, humble-looking eatery at the end of the street. The shop is crowded, the majority of its customers aged fifty and above. These taxi drivers spend their invaluable thirty-minute break here, getting their stomachs nutritiously-filled and stamina immensely-recharged. To them, the food is every penny's worth. To Yeseul, the food is simply divine; drawing her into the same place, five days a week. 

An ahjumma, marked with traces of hard work on her wrinkly faces, welcomes Yeseul into her family's thirty-year old shop. Yeseul, who stands out like a lone prickly rose among the pine green bush, gives her a nodding affirmation and takes her seat at the unoccupied table by the window. 

As a regular for the past three years, Yeseul has long secured the table by the corner to herself. She is also exempted from the need to make an order, as her very appearance at the shop only meant one dish from the kitchen. 

"One bowl of doenjang jiggae!" The ahjumma calls out to her husband in the kitchen. 

Pulling out a thin layer of paper serviette from the wooden tissue box, Yeseul organizes her silverware neatly. Her slender fingers reach out for a stainless steel spoon and a pair of metallic chopsticks from the cutlery holder by the side of the table. She lays them delicately side by side, just below her right hand, above the folded serviette. As she waits for her meal, Yeseul peers out at the neighboring alley through the vintage-design window, a rarity of itself. A new sight presents itself each day, and strangely relieves Yeseul of her momentary troubles at work. 

Today, she sees a young mother, dressed in a baggy t-shirt and classic mom jeans. Crouching down on her knees, the mother follows her little one's gaze, presently affixed on the plush toy sitting inside the claw machine on the sidewalk. The young mother clutches onto her purse with a heavy heart and a forced smile, while the child begins to wail.

Abruptly, Yeseul pulls her eyes away from the scene. A warm but distant voice speaks to her sensitive state of mind.'When you treat your spoon and chopsticks right, your food tastes better too.'

She rushes to swallow the glass of barley tea that has just been served, not minding how the fluid gets in the way of her trachea. The choking may have been mild, but the attention that came with it isn't. All eyes turn suddenly towards Yeseul, the woman who has always kept to herself in the corner of the shop.

The ahjumma brings over a bowl of hot piping fermented soybean paste stew, a bowl of unpolished brown rice, and a small plate of assorted side dish to Yeseul's table, and jumps at the opportunity. "Are you alright, miss?"

Yeseul's eyes widen at the ahjumma's unprecedented concern, and she nods off the question with assurance. She has been more than alright for the last decade.

"Then, please enjoy the food," the ahjumma smiles with her eyes, giving a quick bow to her customer.

Yeseul tears her eyes away from the elderly woman. It has always been difficult for her to look into the eyes of another person who bears warmth. It is easier looking at a side-eye, an envious eye, a lazy eye or even a blind eye - there are aplenty in the office. 

It is also easier to look at food, who greets Yeseul warmly, without fail, everyday.

The fermented soybean paste stew before her bubbles over and over again in the black Korean claypot. The tofu, shrimps, clams, cubed-size potatoes, moon-shaped zucchinis and finely chopped green onions dance in wobbly circles over the earth-toned soup. As the steam from the hot stew rises to her tall nose, Yeseul takes in a long sniff, immersing herself in the pungent but beautiful aroma. To her, it is neither imperceptible or overpowering, perfectly capturing simplicity at its finest. 

Her mouth waters. 

Grabbing her spoon, Yeseul lowers it to the pot, filling it with a scoop of goodness. She hurries to blow on her soup, her stomach calling out impatiently. 

The flavor hits her often-immobilized senses, and the coarse texture of the broth revives her lethargic soul. She lets out a short hum of approval, just like yesterday, and the day before yesterday. 

Between Yeseul's hands, the unpolished brown rice shake against its covered stainless steel bowl. She listens attentively to the sound of the grains coming together, detaching itself from the silverware. The bowl opens to a clean lump of rice glued together, not one grain left sticking to its lid. Flipping the bowl upside down, she drops the clean lump of rice into the middle of the stew, watching it sink like a boulder in the water.

Like a child's palate, this is how she enjoyed eating her stew. 

For the next thirty minutes, Yeseul digs into the saving grace of her comfort food in rewarded silence, recharging her battery to deal with the mischief maker. 

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"Has anybody seen Jihye?"

Yeseul's voice settles on deaf ears, with no one daring to reply. She hovers over her cubicle and takes an account of the team - Mia is presently sucking on the straw of her banana milk drink, Nari is about to doze off with her head inching closer and closer to her monitor, and Dongchul is somehow convinced that he is a keyboard smasher. 

She fights back the temptation to roll her eyes.

Jihye's desk has been vacant since lunchtime. Knowing her team, they are probably aware of her whereabouts but are choosing to stay mum about it. 

Yeseul thinks on her feet to lay an open bait. "If anyone of you are able to tell me where she is, I might consider letting you off fifteen minutes early today."

At Yeseul's alluring provision, Dongchul and Mia jumps up to their feet, their voices sounding like gibberish as they attempt to out-volume each other. The answers from their mouth are as far as the East is from the West, leaving the two pairs of mouth to gape at each other.

Yeseul repeats her question, but this time only to Nari, Jihye's closest confidante. By now, the office goddess is wide awake, thanks to the commotion surrounding her. Her eyes, wide and round, blink twice before she muttered a low, nonchalant response.

"She wasn't feeling too well. I guess she went to the hospital for an IV drip or something."

Why, of course.

"Thank you Nari," Yeseul gives her a cool smile, making her shrug like a bonafide winner. Dongchul and Mia retreat to their roller chairs quietly, hoping to fade into the background without blood on their hands.

"Ms. Lee, does that mean I can leave early today?"

Nari's question leaves Yeseul smiling, but it couldn't look any less plastic. "I'm considering it, but I think Jihye thinks otherwise. She's set up six back-to-back meeting appointments with freelance writers, comedians, entrepreneurs, baristas, and pet groomers. I suppose, they are for the bite-sized column proposals I'd asked her to submit before twelve noon today."

Nari squints her eyes, uninterested. "I'm not sure what is it you're getting at, Ms. Lee. If you could just summarize..."

Yeseul is more than happy to oblige. Keeping a straight face, she makes her point. "Jihye missed her deadline. Of all people, she told you that she needed to go to see the doctor. Who do you think is going to pick up after her slack?"

"I--"

"Thank you Nari." At her convenience, Yeseul interrupts her to seal the deal. "I'll meet three of the vendors and you can take the other three. You have exactly two hours and fifteen minutes if you'd still like to leave early. I'd double my speed right now if I were you."

"Wait! But... But this... this isn't fair!" Nari complains through the pin-drop silence. Her high-pitched voice echoes through the neighboring departments, where tiny murmuring voices followed behind cardboard-thin partitions. 

"Save your complaints for Jihye's ears. Let's try not to forget who dropped the additional workload on our plates," Yeseul smirks through her set of clenched teeth, laptop in arm. "I'm off to meet the pet groomer now. The next time any of you are thinking about taking a leave without first informing me, get yourself mentally prepared - the person who gives consent to anyone else's leave co-shares the responsibility."

Yeseul walks away from her cubicle, leaving three trembling pair of eyes behind. The message she'd given was beyond loud and clear, and words were pulled out from the end of their tongues. 

Realization kicking in, Nari begins to lose her mind over her manager's wacko method delegation. She hisses under her quivering breath, "That stupid bitch." 

Speeding off to the bathroom with her phone, Jihye is connected almost immediately, and Mia eavesdrops just outside the ladies'. Nari fidgets desperately. "Unnie, what... what do I do?"

Jihye laughs like the atrocious stepmother that she is. Through the mirror, her short and simple answer brings back the nonchalant smile on Nari's face. 

"You know what to do now, don't you?"