The women’s restrooms were empty.
It was early on Monday morning. Only a few people had arrived at the office, and the security guards stood in the lobby, watching as a sleepy-looking woman walked slowly through the revolving doors. She bowed to them, stifling a yawn, and badged in just as the elevator arrived, the doors sliding open with a chirp.
On the fifth floor, the woman stepped out, shuffling in the direction of the restroom. She yanked the door open, stepping over the threshold. Instantly, the motion sensor bulbs blinked on, flooding each stall with light.
Michelle entered the first stall, carefully securing the latch on the door. Then, after unbuttoning her pants and pulling them down, she sat on the toilet. Her panties—a lacy black thong—were bunched around her knees.
Michelle was one of the few American-born women in the office. When she was first hired, her foreignness had been as obvious as a lingering stench. Now, months into the gig, thatline had become blurred. She had purchased an entirely new wardrobe and shied away from the heavier style of makeup preferred in the States. Her Korean had improved, too, and the frequent typos of her early emails had lessened before disappearing completely. Anyone who met her now had no idea she was even American until she switched to English—which she did infrequently, and only when directed to by her superiors.
But the truth was just under the surface. In Michelle’s case, right under her neatly pressed slacks.
After all, everyone knew that thongs were not something well-behaved women of society would wear. Real Korean women—at least the ones Junyoung knew—wouldn’t even consider it.
Static ran across the screen, and Michelle’s figure grew blurry. Junyoung frowned. He leaned forward, his nose almost touching the monitor, and clicked his mouse a dozen times in rapid succession. The video froze: Michelle, standing in front of the mirror, her face still and expressionless, fingers stopped mid-stroke as they brushed through her hair.
Voices echoed down the hallway, and Junyoung glanced at the clock. It was almost nine. Annoyed, he took one last look at Michelle before closing the window and switching to a blank spreadsheet. Morning was the worst time. His cubicle was close to the elevator, and all the foot traffic made him anxious. For good reason: His coworkers were nosy rats, peering into his cubicle as they passed by.
“You’re working too hard, man! What time did you get here?” Yoonseok said, reaching over to slap Junyoung’s back.
“Junyoung!” Hyunwoo called. “Did you have a good weekend?”
“Ugh, you beat me in again …” Kangmin groaned. “I’ll get you tomorrow.”
Junyoung smiled and shrugged, though he didn’t look back. He kept working.Pretending to, anyway, because he was having a hard time staying focused. His mind kept wandering to Michelle and her little black thong, the dark fabric bunched up around her knees. Her glossy thighs. Her bare pussy.
The first time he had seen the hairless triangle of her sex he had made a mess—first by spitting out a mouthful of water all over his keyboard, and again minutes later, when he had stumbled out of his cubicle and into the bathroom to jerk off, hands clasped tightly around his erection. He had finished while leaning hard against the side of the stall, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle his moans.
Before meeting Michelle, he had never known a woman without hair down there. Once, when he was young, his father had told him that no self-respecting woman shaved that part of her body. Only porn stars and prostitutes. Junyoung couldn’t fathom why Michelle had chosen to do such a thing. Maybe her salary wasn’t enough. Maybe on the weekends she fucked men for money.
+
Junyoung’s phone rang all morning. He was on support desk duty, which was by far the worst part of working in IT. He and his coworkers were each assigned to a day: Kangmin had Tuesdays; Cheolmin, Wednesdays; Yoonseok, Thursdays; and Hyunwoo, Fridays. Luckily, the first few calls were easy—mostly people who were locked out of their accounts—and all Junyoung had to do was reset their passwords.
Working in IT, Junyoung had seen quite a few examples of moronic behavior over the years. One time, a woman tried to access her superior’s email account to delete a complaint someone had sent about her and was caught after seventeen failedlogin attempts were traced back to her work laptop. On another occasion, a man sent a picture of his penis to everybody in the company. It was an accident, of course. The man had inadvertently carbon copied the company’s global distribution list, which included the CEO and all seven members of the board of directors. He was promptly fired and escorted out of the building.
Today wasn’t nearly as bad. Of all the idiots, the biggest was a man who claimed someone had sent an obscene email from his account the night before to the head of his department.
“It wasn’t me,” the man insisted. “I was asleep when it happened.” He paused, grasping for words, but Junyoung, listening absentmindedly, already knew what was coming next. As if on cue, the man said, voice pleading, “I was hacked. You have to help me get to the bottom of this. I can’t get fired—my wife will kill me.”
Junyoung accessed the email remotely and read the single line of text, stifling his giggles.You’re a balding goatfucker, and I hope you die in your sleep.It had been sent past midnight, at 12:24 a.m. No doubt an impulsive, drunken act fueled by soju.
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. I wish I could be more helpful,” Junyoung said pleasantly. The email was sitting in the inbox, unread. If he really wanted to, Junyoung could have deleted the message.Poof.Like it had never existed. But he didn’t feel like it today. The man let out a choked sob, and the line went dead.
Between each request, Junyoung peeked at the camera feeds. Michelle flitted in and out of the fifth-floor restroom. A gaggle of female interns, young and scared looking, whispered to each other as they hurried to use the toilets on the third floor. The phone rang again, loud and insistent. Junyoung answered, only half listening to the croaking voice on the line. Something about spam emails?
Cradling the receiver between his neck and shoulder, he zoomed in to watch the interns in the stalls. Blue-and-white panties. Pink panties with roses. Panties with lace. The last one, the prettiest of them all, wore granny panties. Junyoung made a face. She was so young. Why did she insist on wearing such terrible underwear? Nevertheless, he watched as she finished her business, and when the group left, he moved to the second floor. It was empty. He switched back to the blank spreadsheet and began to type.
By then, it was lunchtime. Junyoung feigned concentration as his coworkers passed his desk to get to the elevators. The floor was silent as he poked his head out, looking around at the lines of empty desks before sitting back down. It was what he had wanted all morning … some goddamn peace and quiet. He unhooked his desk phone, which was mid-ring, silencing it and throwing the cord aside. He opened the program for the hundredth time that day and stared at his computer screen, hypnotized by the movement in each of the forty boxes.
He didn’t care much for money, but this? It made him feel rich. He ran his fingers across the monitor lovingly, leaving smudges behind. Then he stopped. Squinted. Was it just his imagination, or was one of the cameras in the third-floor stalls crooked? He pulled up the video library on his cellphone. Hundreds of videos, all taken from the restrooms, populated the screen. He found the ones from that specific stall from the previous week and compared them to the current feed.
Somehow, the camera had moved. Perhaps the interns had bumped into the wall, or someone had slammed the door a little too hard. Junyoung stared, fingers drumming on his desk. An itch was growing under his skin, crawling into his bloodstream. It bothered him. Just that slight difference in view meant that he would miss the full picture of whoever used the stall.
If Junyoung waited until the workday was over, there would be little risk. Most people were gone after eight. But what if he missed something important in the meantime, like the interns coming back to make out with each other in secret? It was unlikely, but not impossible; he had seen it happen in a porno before. Sitting there, Junyoung reasoned with himself. It was lunchtime, and the floor was probably empty. It was just one camera. Plus, he was an expert now. He was quick. He had done this hundreds of times before.
And if he was caught?
Junyoung shook his head. He certainly wasn’t about to let it happen today. He logged out, glancing around one last time at his cubicle. Stacks of paper, neatly organized by date. Next to them, a brand-new notepad with a green cover. A white mug filled with pens. He flicked a speck of dust off his mouse pad and headed to the stairwell.