yeonjun²

The boutique has a vanilla scent, as sweet and sticky as all those glossy smiles of sales consultants. The music in the speakers is playing something French, unobtrusive, but too cozy for such price tags. Everything here is shiny, as if the windows are polished three times an hour. You're standing in front of the mirror in your fifth fur coat. It's a chocolate mink with a neat collar that fits over your shoulders as if it were sewn to fit you.

Yeonjun is sitting on a sofa upholstered in gray velvet. He has a brand-new iPhone on his lap, but even that doesn't save him from the boredom reflected in his cold eyes. He's staring at the screen, but he keeps glancing at the fitting room.

A young consultant, obviously just after the “sell anything” courses, quietly adjusts your sleeve, while the other stands a little apart, as if in ambush, afraid to interfere. They know exactly who he is. They know that if you, his beloved wife, wrinkle your nose at least once more or say “I don't like it” Yeonjun will close this boutique, and, if necessary, the entire mall.

You turn around in the mirror, fix your hair, smile to yourself. You like this game of choosing, frowning thoughtfully, nodding slowly, as if you were making a royal decision. Yeonjun pulls back the curtain of the fitting room and appears in the doorway. his cheek rests on the doorjamb, his hands are in his pockets, and the shadow of his hood falls over his eyes. he looks at you for a long time, carefully, studying every move.

— well, you have to choose something, I'm tired.