Chapter 1 — The Neighbor Housewife Who Ejaculated — 1 (1)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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I'm a 38-year-old man who lost everything—my business partner betrayed me, my marriage collapsed, and I ended up divorced, now living alone in a studio apartment of a small apartment building.

The day I moved in, I met the woman from next door, Unit 103. Since we'd likely see each other often, I greeted her warmly.

She looked about mid-thirties. I later found out she had two young kids in kindergarten.

Before marriage, I'd lived with my parents, so I'd never really lived alone. Now, suddenly on my own with nothing—no money, no support—I felt completely lost.

I didn't know the first thing about managing life. Electricity bills, trash disposal, food waste—none of it made sense to me.

Everything felt bleak. I drifted through the days, numb, until I realized I couldn't just let myself die like this. I had to start over—learn everything from scratch.

I went to the local supermarket, bought trash bags, picked up groceries, and started cooking simple meals.

But one thing stumped me: how the hell did people handle food waste?

Back in my old apartment, my wife had always taken care of it. There was a communal collection spot, and I'd never paid attention.

So I started watching. I noticed everyone placed their food scraps in small containers, set them out, and later retrieved the empty ones.

Now I was curious—where did these containers come from? Did each apartment come with one? I searched my place thoroughly.

Nothing. I finally decided I had no choice. I walked over to Unit 103 and rang the doorbell.

After a moment, she opened. She looked more polished than the first day I'd seen her. Not classically pretty, but with a quiet, magnetic charm.

She smiled and explained kindly that food waste bins were sold at the neighborhood supermarket, dishware shops, the market, even at Daiso.

And every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning, the waste was collected—just set it out the night before. I was so grateful.

That very evening, I bought a bin and placed it outside on Sunday night, lined up neatly beside the others.

Mine was pink—kind of cute, actually. The next morning, I went to retrieve it.

Wait—what? It hadn't been emptied. I checked the others. All emptied, lids flipped over.

Why was mine untouched?

Was something wrong with the contents?

I brought it back inside, opened the lid, and inspected it carefully.

Could it be too much liquid? I squeezed the broth out at the sink, pulled out every scrap, and manually wrung them dry with my hands—removing as much moisture as possible.

The waste was now almost fluffy and dry. The volume had even shrunk.

Ah… so that's how it's done.

That Tuesday evening, I set it out again. Next morning—again? Still untouched? Only mine?

I was furious. Frustrated. Humiliated. I called city hall to complain.

Only to be told off—I needed to attach a sticker to the bin. A paid sticker for food waste.

I nearly died of embarrassment. My face burned.

I immediately went to the local store, bought a three-liter sticker, and placed my bin out Thursday evening.

Next morning—heart pounding, palms sweating.

Yes! Perfectly emptied. Lid flipped over. Success!!! LOL

I felt like I'd passed a national exam. That kind of joy.

Life in the building settled into a quiet rhythm. Then one day, I saw furniture dumped outside my door.

What was going on? Was someone moving?

As I opened my front door, I saw the woman from 103 standing inside her doorway, waiting for her kids' kindergarten bus.

I greeted her warmly: "Hi there!"

But she didn't even look at me. Just stared blankly outside, replying mechanically.

"...Yeah..."

Her face was pale. I looked closer—something was wrong. She'd always greeted me with a smile before.

I tried again. "Everything okay? You look unwell."

Then—she started crying. Silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

I froze. A grown woman, crying in front of a stranger? What had happened?

"Are you alright? Is something wrong?"

I asked, concerned.

"No… I'm… sorry…"

Sorry for what?

I sensed she was uncomfortable. I didn't want to make it worse, so I quietly went back inside.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it. What was going on?

Should I have stayed? Asked more?

I'm not the type to let things go. I had to know.

But how? I had no excuse to talk to her now.

Thinking back, I hadn't seen her husband's car for days.

I'd only met him once or twice—just a nod in passing. I didn't even remember his face.

What the hell was going on?

I couldn't take it. If I didn't find out, I wouldn't sleep tonight.

I went to Paris Baguette and bought a cake. I'd bring it over—pretend I had too much, wanted to share with the kids.

At least I'd get a sense of what was happening inside that apartment.

(Yeah, I know. Meddlesome guy, right? No wonder I got scammed by a friend. Hah.)

Back home, I cut the cake in half. Not because I wanted to eat it—because showing up with a whole cake would seem suspicious.

No birthday. No occasion. Why would I just bring a cake?

Better to say I couldn't finish it, so I wanted to share.

I took the half-cake, walked to her door, and rang the bell.

I was ready—watch the inside, read the atmosphere the second she opened.

But no answer.

Light spilled from inside, but silence.

I pressed the bell again, harder.

Finally, after a long wait, she opened. The little girl peeked out behind her, following her mother like a shadow.

She looked like she'd just woken up—not from sleep, but from lying down with the kids.

Her eyes were puffy, slightly bloodshot—like she'd been crying.

The woman took the cake box, handed it to her daughter, and told her to go inside.

The door closed. Then she stepped outside, standing in front of me.

"I'm sorry about earlier."

"No, I should be sorry. I didn't know what was going on—I was thoughtless to speak up like that."

She pointed toward my apartment.

"Is… anyone inside your place?"

"Me? Oh. No. Why?"

I was startled. What was she asking about my room for?

"I… wanted to ask you something."

"Your husband…?"

"...He's gone."

"Oh... I see. Come in."

I led her to my apartment.