Between Earth and Elsewhere

“Would you want to eat this if you were me?”

Yeomyung looked down at the mango shaved ice in front of him.

The customer pounded on the counter, shouting, “It’s just a pile of ice with barely any mango! This isn’t cheap, you know. How can you serve this?”

Other customers glanced at the commotion.

“We served the standard amount,” Yeomyung said.

“What?” the customer snapped.

“I gave you the exact amount we’re supposed to.”

“Unbelievable. You call this standard? This tiny bit of mango?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, are you disrespecting me? Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Some people claim disrespect without reason. Even when there’s no objective basis, they find ways to justify feeling slighted. These types have a low threshold for feeling disrespected. Unless they’re treated like royalty, they feel wronged. Two factors lower this threshold: an inflated sense of self-importance and a feeling of superiority over “just an employee.”

“Stop talking and make it again,” the customer demanded.

Yeomyung stared at him blankly.

The customer’s face flushed. “Oh, is that how you want to play it?”

To handle such people, you need to raise their threshold for feeling disrespected. Since changing their inflated ego is nearly impossible, you have to adjust their perception of “the other person.”

“Shall I call the manager for you?” Yeomyung asked.

“What?”

“If you think the portion is wrong, then it’s the standard that’s at fault, not me. Instead of arguing with an employee, you should take it up with someone higher up. The closest person to headquarters I can connect you with is the manager. I’ll call them for you.”

“The nerve… Telling me to pay for this? You’ve messed with the wrong person. I’ll leave a terrible review and tank your rating. You’ll lose all your customers. Watch.”

The customer stormed back to his table, still muttering angrily.

Sunhee, who’d been hiding in the kitchen, crept to the counter and whispered, “That jerk… He never says a word to the manager but always harasses the staff.”

This customer was a regular problem. Whenever he appeared, Sunhee would hide in the kitchen, leaving Yeomyung to handle it. She claimed she felt threatened and made Yeomyung deal with it just because he was a guy.

This was why Yeomyung avoided getting involved. Every action seemed to entangle him with someone else.

Even this part-time job had already tangled him with too many people. To him, dealing with others felt like carrying sandbags—exhausting, burdensome, and pointless.

So he chose solitude whenever possible.

He ignored Sunhee and continued tidying the counter.

The same logic had guided him to take only three 50,000 won bills that day. A million won was excessive compensation for a few stitches. Yeomyung didn’t see it as good fortune. Windfalls always came with strings attached.

That was the cruel irony of poverty. A million won wouldn’t change a poor person’s life. It wouldn’t ease his grandmother’s care, secure his father’s retirement, or free him from work. It wouldn’t bring his mom back from the dead. Yet the poorer someone was, the more easily they were blinded by money. They’d grab it, only to find hidden burdens lurking inside, like soldiers spilling from a Trojan horse, making life even harder.

A scone appeared suddenly before him.

“3,500 won,” he said, tapping the POS machine. “Do you have a discount or loyalty card?”

He looked up mid-sentence and froze.

It was her. Seorin.

She handed over her card. “Just ring it up, please.”

Yeomyung processed the payment in silence.

“I came by because I had something to ask,” she said.

“Didn’t you already take my number?”

“Just coincidentally. I had some business nearby.”

Yeomyung handed back her card and the scone without a word.

“Why does my sister call you an alien?” she asked.

“…I don’t know.”

“You didn’t meet my sister for the first time that day, right?”

He hesitated. How much should he say to free himself from these strange sisters?

“That’s right,” Yeomyung said.

“When else did you meet?”

“At the bus stop, on my way home from work.”

“Why… how did you meet?”

“I got off the bus… and your sister followed me. Calling me an alien.”

“Why did she call you that?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“She just called you an alien for no reason?”

“Yes.”

Seorin fell silent, lost in thought.

“There’s a customer waiting to pay,” Yeomyung said. “Could you step aside?”

“Oh… yes.”

She moved away but lingered until the customer left.

While processing the sale, Yeomyung wondered why she’d come looking for him. Why ask about her sister’s alien fixation now? She hadn’t cared that day. Had she really come just to ask this? Did she not work? Were they wealthy enough that the daughters didn’t need jobs?

Whatever the reason, he wanted no further involvement. Especially with someone like Arin, who seemed desperate to cling to him—whether for money or emotional support. The more someone valued and needed him, the more he wanted to distance himself.

When the counter cleared, Seorin approached again. “Since that day, Arin keeps looking for you. Talking about aliens.”

Yeomyung gave her a blank look that said, “So what?”

“We’re not letting her go out, so she’s acting… strangely. Could you come to our house once? We’ll compensate you well.”

“No, I don’t think I can do that. I’m sorry.”

He retreated to the kitchen and began packing bread into plastic bags.

Don’t leave! Don’t leave! Please!

Arin’s desperate eyes flashed in his mind—black as an abyss. Like quicksand, one step and you’d sink, impossible to escape. That’s what getting involved with people felt like.

When he emerged with a tray of packaged bread, Seorin was still there.

He ignored her and went to stock the display shelf.

She followed. “I wouldn’t ask if I had any choice,” she said quietly. “But since that day, my sister hasn’t eaten anything. If we force her, she throws it up. She screams hysterically… We’re running out of options… Please.”

Her voice carried a desperate politeness.

Yeomyung felt a twinge of sympathy, but he couldn’t give in. This kind of desperation meant she’d likely cling to his life.

The more desperate, the more he needed to stay away.

“I’m sorry,” was all he said.

***

“That’ll be 48,000 won. Do you have a discount or loyalty card?”

“No, just ring it up, please.”

It was Seorin again.

Yeomyung processed the payment silently, wondering if she’d make another plea about her sister. But she just took her bread and headed to the dining area.

What’s going on?

A familiar voice pierced the air.

“I don’t want to! I’m shedding this physical shell to become an astral body and travel to the Third Galaxy!”

The voice was familiar but sharper, more agitated than before.

“Why won’t you eat? After all that talk about aliens,” Seorin said.

“You don’t even believe me! You won’t let me meet them!”

“Who says I don’t believe you? This bread was made by an alien.”

“…”

“Look, there’s the alien, right there.”

Yeomyung tried not to look but caught sight of Arin anyway.

She gasped and covered her mouth, bouncing with excitement. She’d grown even thinner in just days—now all skin and bones, collarbones jutting out.

Seeing her so emaciated made guilt gnaw at Yeomyung, despite Seorin’s warning. It felt like his fault she’d become this way.

…No. Why should this be his fault? This was her mental illness. He couldn’t let his heart soften and take on responsibilities that weren’t his.

Seorin spoke again, trying to calm her sister. “Easy now. Stay still. Do you know how hard it was finding out the alien was here? What if they run away because of your behavior? So be quiet.”

Arin fell silent but squirmed like a stepped-on worm, joy radiating from her.

Over Arin’s head, Seorin’s eyes met Yeomyeong’s. Gone was her earlier pleading—now they held only cold resentment. Was she angry he’d refused to visit?

“Let’s go eat the bread made by the alien,” she said, leading Arin back.

“Then this bread must contain the extraterrestrial substance deltatrass?” Arin said excitedly.

“Well… yes. It contains that. So eat quickly.”

Silence followed, presumably because Arin started eating.

Yeomyung couldn’t help but watch them. Would they become regulars now?

He’d stepped into trouble. Bad luck, he thought—being chosen as an alien by a mentally ill person had to be rarer than winning the lottery. How had such misfortune found him?

He couldn’t stop them from coming. If they just came for bread, fine. He’d treat them like any other customers.

If Arin’s mind was truly like a child’s, she’d tire of this alien game soon enough. Then she’d stop coming.

“Yeomyung.”

The manager poked his head out from the kitchen.

“Come here a moment.”

In the kitchen, the manager handed him a white envelope. “You’ve worked hard. Don’t come in tomorrow.”

He spoke casually, as if forecasting weather.

“What?” Yeomyung said, dumbfounded. “Why…?”

“Well… Too many customer complaints. They say you look too gloomy. People come here to feel good, but leave feeling down.”

The excuse felt hollow, like he was expressing his own opinions rather than actual customer complaints.

The manager nodded at the envelope. “That’s your dismissal compensation. And since we have fewer than five employees, this isn’t wrongful dismissal. I’m telling you now so you don’t waste time at the labor office.”

Yeomyung stood frozen, processing the moment.

The manager patted his shoulder. “What are you waiting for? Your shift’s over. Go home.”

He left with a bounce in his step.

After a dazed moment, Yeomyung changed in the locker room and walked out.

Were there really that many complaints? Something felt off. But he wasn’t particularly angry; this was how part-time jobs worked.

Or did he just think anger was pointless since nothing would change?

Outside the store, a voice called, “Yeomyung.”

He turned.

Seorin sat in the driver’s seat of a parked car.

“Do you need a job?”