We are like an affair couple too

My husband’s hair is mostly gray now, and his belly sticks out a bit. I’m small and skinny—maybe built like an elementary school kid who’s been eating well lately. Blaming the muggy weather, I wore a sleeveless short dress—definitely not age-appropriate. To top it off, I had on red-framed sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low. Maybe that’s why?

Tired from the heat and the crowds, we ended up at the express bus terminal by the river. The next bus heading east was bound for Gangneung, and without a second thought, we got on. As my ears popped and the bus sped through misty mountain tunnels, I suddenly wondered—do they still use those old winding roads that once twisted around the hills?

When we got off in Gangneung, we took a taxi to Gyeongpo.
“The tunnels are great for tourists but bad for local business,” the driver complained. “People come and leave the same day now. No one stays overnight anymore.”

We checked into the hotel he dropped us off at and were directed to a restaurant nearby for dinner. At the entrance, a giant fish tank was filled with fish that looked less like they were swimming and more like they’d given up. On closer look, their scales were peeling, and their fins were torn—they seemed to say, Just kill me already. My appetite vanished. Just then, a woman with dramatically double-lidded eyes burst out, saying the hotel had called ahead and welcomed us enthusiastically.

My husband, usually cheerful about food and quick to order a soju, was strangely quiet as he stared at the menu.

“What’s wrong? Nothing you want to eat?” 

I asked. He quietly slid the menu over to me. The prices had way too many zeros. 150,000 won, 250,000 won... the most expensive dish was 350,000 won. One plate was nearly $300? I looked around. The restaurant was completely empty. And frankly, nothing about the place looked worth even half the price.

The double-eyelid lady kept pushing us to order.
“Excuse me,” I asked, “why are there so many zeros?”
My husband was silently sinking into the table.
“We’re sorry,” I said, “but we really can’t afford this.”
As I stood up, she tried to stop us, promising to give us a good deal. My husband scrambled after me, flustered.

“Do you think they mistook us for an affair and handed us the ‘affair menu’?” he whispered.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Think about it. If you’re cheating, you can’t exactly say, ‘This is too expensive,’ in front of your fling, right? Maybe it’s a sneaky tactic.”

If only I had known that during the day, the streets here are ghostly quiet, but by evening, everything lights up and people flood in—I wouldn’t have gone looking for a café the next morning. Still, we wandered along Gyeongpo Beach in search of a morning coffee. Not a single café was open. Then we spotted a woman selling coffee from a cart in a tucked-away spot. Her foundation was hastily applied, making her face look pale, and her lips were painted a thick, bright pink. We ordered two coffees. As she stirred our drinks, she kept glancing at us.

Was she thinking, What kind of couple strolls the beach at this hour—a graying man and a woman hiding behind sunglasses and a hat? Or maybe she’d heard about the restaurant incident the night before and jumped to conclusions?

Either way, sipping 1,000-won coffee by the quiet morning sea—with just a hint of scandal in the air—didn’t taste so bad.