He was staring at me, sitting so damn smug with his arms crossed on his damn chest. The damn bastard was in a damn suit looking so damn handsome.

I glared at him, hurling my maleficent spite from across his beautiful mahogany work desk.

One corner of his lip lifts into a smirk. Ugh. This bastard.

The scent of roses, of grassy sweetness clung desperately to my clothes. I should have not put those damn things so close to me.

“So,” The damn bastard begins, leaning forward, folding his beautiful hands in contemplation, setting them in front of him, pressing his lower lip on a knuckle. “Miss Park…”

The room—his office of dark things, of dark mahogany table, dark grey filing cabinets, dark blue plush carpet—only had his work light on, a single white light showering me with brightness like some awkward interrogation lamp. And maybe this was an interrogation. A receipt from Omona! Flowers laid in front of him, staring at me accusingly. Any moment now I expected him to go, Where were you on the night of the murder? But I killed no one! I only paid and receive (dead) flowers on Valentine’s Day; I am sure there is no country in this reality that could possibly make that illegal. Still this damn bastard, i.e. my boss, i.e. Mr. Choi Seung hyun, i.e. Mr. Hotshot-y-manager-in-a-suit-&-tie was looking at me like a cop who has finally caught his robber. I narrow my brows in displeasure. It only made his grin spread wider.

“…have you anything to say to me?”

This is it. The laying down of the cards. I lean forward careful not to break the line of his stare, arms crossed over my chest, legs demurely crossed over on top of another. “I send flowers to myself on Valentine’s Day.” I don’t feel guilty. I am not ashamed. I am a Himono-onna, and I am proud of the steps I have taken to keep that status! I am a dried fish woman. Here me, roar! Except not really, because , you know fishes don’t roar. “What’s the problem with that?”

The problem was the fact that she had been avoiding my advances since I have been her boss. This girl who secretly buys manga, who secretly likes being bare-faced, wearing loose clothes sans brassieres, tying her unbrushed hair in a weird top-knot. The same girl who is sitting in front of me, hair sleeked back, in a pristine black dress with a demure length that stopped just before her knees, a crisp white coat, with shiny, audacious red shoes, with just a hint of make-up that lined her eyes, a hint of peach on her lips. This girl. This himono-onna.

I had been transferred to their department upon the promotion of her old boss who is now Director John Lee. It was last year. Same day today, Valentine’s Day. Same bouquet of peach roses sits on top of her desk just outside my office.

The first time I saw her, I already thought that she was my type, but smacked right down our introduction she receives a bouquet of roses from her “Italian boyfriend” (henceforth referred to as “fictional pasta”). I should have been deterred, but I couldn’t help but see her every day, receive her polite smiles and her careful concocted coffee. She was my secretary. Of course, I should have expected her to be caring towards me. That was her job. But still, sometimes, when I was at home alone, I could still smell the roses of her perfume.

Finding her at a run-down bookstore, on her Himono Mode had been an accident. It was raining hard, my car was busted, my phone dead and I took shelter at the nearest sho