As soon as work ended, he turned his car toward home. The drive home felt exceptionally long today. His mouth felt parched. His hair, which he had styled haphazardly in the morning, was now messy and falling over his forehead. His suit was wrinkled in places from lack of ironing. Perhaps because he had tried so hard to focus on work today, he felt more tired than usual. The clock pointed to 10:00. Is his wife asleep by now? Or is she waiting for him? Either way, he won't be able to sleep tonight because of the guilt. Today, he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol, and there was no scent of perfume on him. He realized how hard it was to endure things while sober. A large bouquet of roses sat in the back seat of the car. He bought them for his wife just like he did in the early days of their marriage, but he didn't know if he had the right to give them to her. Suddenly, he remembered what his wife had said to him while he was half-asleep. She asked to go back to Hawaii. Hawaii, where they went for their honeymoon. The two of them stepping on the black sand under a sky dyed deep with darkness. He cannot go to the island she wants to visit. Because there is no way they can ever go back. He remembered how he had eventually avoided her by saying he was tired and should talk next time. He failed to watch the car in front of him and slammed on the brakes. Horns blared loudly from all directions. Before he knew it, tears had welled up in his eyes. Did he even have the right to cry freely? He wiped his eyes once with the back of his hand.

Ultimately, he left the bouquet in the car and took the elevator. His hand was slower than usual as he pressed the code for the door lock. His fingertips trembled slightly. He couldn't even picture what kind of expression he would face on his wife's face. When he opened the door, the living room was quiet and the lights were off. He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, took off his shoes, and looked toward the master bedroom. She was likely asleep. Just then, the sound of a can clinking came from the kitchen. He turned around to see a single kitchen light on. His wife slowly came into view, leaning against the table with a beer can in her hand, staring into space. Her eyes were dry and empty. She looked so different from the face he remembered. He recalled the previous night when he had pushed her hand away, calling her a woman who only knew sorrow. The bag in his hand slipped and fell onto the carpet. At the small sound, his wife's head turned slowly. He didn't pull away when she handed him a beer. The woman who used to never touch alcohol and would get drunk off a single shot of soju had emptied two cans of beer by herself. He didn't know what expression to make. Before he knew it, he was sitting in the opposite chair, accepting the can she offered. The beer was slightly lukewarm. He gulped down the lukewarm liquid. He had craved alcohol so much all day, but now that it was actually in his system, it didn't feel refreshing. It felt like his wife was watching him. He couldn't tell exactly where her unfocused eyes were looking, but he couldn't stop her as she finished the rest of her beer, and he quickly finished his own. The alcohol didn't hit him immediately from just one can. Then, his wife's dry eyes began to glisten. It wasn't a look of vitality. Her eyes slowly turned red, and tears began to fill them. He started to reach out with his shirt sleeve to wipe them, but he hesitated. As his wife saw his hand approaching, the first words came out of her mouth. She said she hates him.