*Fiction — December 1, 2022
Tell Me What’s Real
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1
She wanted to kiss her tonight.
She wanted to kiss her tonight.
Areum thinks that’s nothing unique—she wants to kiss Seol pretty much every night, but she really could have at one a.m. when they ended up in the kitchen of the sharehouse together, Areum to make ramyeon after filing an essay, Seol to get a glass of water before going to bed. Seol had walked in as Areum was about to put the fried round of noodles into the boiling water, had asked from across the open kitchen, Want jeon? I have some leftover shrimp and squid.
Areum had nodded and looked for a bigger pot to cook two packages of ramyeon instead of her one, as Seol made a quick batter, chopped up scallions, and fried the jeon on a hot, oiled pan. Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in the little nook, a thick, crispy haemool pajeon and a bottle of makkeoli before them, eating ramyeon out of the copper pot.
Sometimes, like tonight when Seol sat next to her instead of across the table, when she kept leaning in closer, her lips slicked with the oil from the haemool pajeon, Areum thinks Seol wants her to kiss her—but, then Seol pulls back and turns away, and Areum thinks for what feels like the millionth time, Fuck, is this all just in my head?
2
When Seol makes kimbap, she starts with the rice. If she’s cooking for a small group, she measures out two cups, rinses it, and leaves the rice to soak for forty-five minutes. She makes a quick soy sauce marinade for thinly-sliced rib-eye, setting that in the fridge as she washes her vegetables—cucumber, carrots, kale. The cucumber is quartered and seeded, the carrots run along a mandolin into thin strips, the kale sauteed on a pan with oil and salt until wilted down. When the rice has soaked, she drains it, covers the rice with clean water, and sets the pot on the stovetop to cook.
2
When Seol makes kimbap, she starts with the rice. If she’s cooking for a small group, she measures out two cups, rinses it, and leaves the rice to soak for forty-five minutes. She makes a quick soy sauce marinade for thinly-sliced rib-eye, setting that in the fridge as she washes her vegetables—cucumber, carrots, kale. The cucumber is quartered and seeded, the carrots run along a mandolin into thin strips, the kale sauteed on a pan with oil and salt until wilted down. When the rice has soaked, she drains it, covers the rice with clean water, and sets the pot on the stovetop to cook.
She whips eggs together with a splash of cream and salt, makes a thick omelette on a hot, buttered pan, which she then uses to cook the marinated beef. The omelette is cut into long strips that match the length of the danmuji she’s made a few days before. Finally, she seasons her cooked rice with a tiny drizzle of sesame oil, a pinch of salt, a handful of crushed sesame seeds, then gets the seaweed sheets, a pinch bowl of water, plastic gloves.
She doesn’t know how to say it, how glad she was when Areum came back to the city and moved into the sharehouse.
Seol likes making kimbap because it’s rote action and she doesn’t have to think as she spreads a thin layer of rice, arranges her filling, and rolls the kimbap. She wishes Areum could be this simple; she wishes she could be this easy around Areum instead of overthinking every single word, gesture, interaction.
When Areum stops showing up for the communal dinners, Seol thinks, Shit, how am I supposed to communicate with you without food?
3
Areum and Seol met two years ago when Seol was doing pop-up dinners in connection to the bookstore attached to the sharehouse. Seol had been cooking since she was eighteen, had worked in some of the top restaurants in the city over her ten-plus-year career, but she’d abruptly left her position as sous chef at a two Michelin-starred restaurant when she was thirty. When her departure was announced, local media wondered where she would go, what would she do—she was a rising star, maybe she would open her own restaurant, maybe she would go abroad.
3
Areum and Seol met two years ago when Seol was doing pop-up dinners in connection to the bookstore attached to the sharehouse. Seol had been cooking since she was eighteen, had worked in some of the top restaurants in the city over her ten-plus-year career, but she’d abruptly left her position as sous chef at a two Michelin-starred restaurant when she was thirty. When her departure was announced, local media wondered where she would go, what would she do—she was a rising star, maybe she would open her own restaurant, maybe she would go abroad.
Seol had no idea.
She was visiting Sydney when she ran into Namu: Namu, the wayward third son of a chaebol, once the favored son who started drifting away when he returned to university after fulfilling his mandatory military service. Gossip wondered what had happened to Namu, and, in Sydney, when Seol sat next to him at the bar, he was thirty-five and removed from upper crust society. They knew each other casually; he’d come into the restaurant often enough that they were familiar with each other; and they were both grateful for the friendly face in a foreign city, relaxing in each other’s company as they sipped cocktails and shared small plates of food. He ran a sharehouse, he said, for young adults who needed a home, a sense of family. There was a bookstore on the garden level, a sizable kitchen and dining space attached. Maybe Seol would be interested. She could do whatever she wanted.
Seol had shrugged noncommittally, but, when she got tired of wandering, she went back home and visited the sharehouse.
They had started with pop-up dinners in collaboration with authors, musicians, creatives, but Seol didn’t like how those attracted media, food people, drifters who floated in and out, like that one tall woman with dyed red hair in an oversized linen shirt haphazardly tucked into shorts. She came to two dinners, four months apart, and Seol liked the way she laughed, wanted her to come back.
They spoke briefly that second time, nothing deep, just hi, thank you for coming, how are you enjoying the meal?, but it had been enough to spark curiosity, to stir up some of the restlessness Seol had been suppressing for months. Later that night, as Namu and Seol shared a drink in the dark kitchen, Seol said she was done with the pop-ups. She’d stay at the sharehouse and cook communal dinners. Maybe she’d do pop-ups elsewhere, but she wanted a space to cook freely without being beholden to anything, to try cooking whatever she wanted, then maybe she’d figure out her next step.
You don’t have to cook dinner every night, Namu said.
Just weeknights. You don’t have to act like that’s not what you wanted, she said back. I’ll do whatever I want.
Fine, he said, downed the rest of his drink. Oh. Her name is Areum, Song Areum. She lives in New York, but she’s been thinking of moving here temporarily to work on a long writing project. Maybe she’ll move in here—I mean, she’ll be getting dinners by the one and only Jo Yoonseol.
4
The sharehouse is too small for them to avoid each other forever. Namu comments how stupid this is; they follow each other on social media and keep mental tabs on each other; but they pretend like they don’t know or don’t care. Seol is inclined to agree. Areum just scowls at him.
4
The sharehouse is too small for them to avoid each other forever. Namu comments how stupid this is; they follow each other on social media and keep mental tabs on each other; but they pretend like they don’t know or don’t care. Seol is inclined to agree. Areum just scowls at him.
Namu says, That’s why you don’t let stupid things like not talking to each other become habit. Areum hits him in the arm.
For almost a year, they followed each other silently on social media, as Areum went back to the States, hopping around New York, Los Angeles, Seattle. Occasionally, Namu would mention Areum around Seol. Have you DM’d her? Did you see that selca she posted with that girl? he would ask, laughing again at the way her face scrunched into a scowl.
She might think it’s easier for you, he tells Areum after another dinner she skips, joining her on the roof as she eats pre-packaged sandwiches from the convenience store—ham with egg salad, tuna, potato salad—washing each one down with a carton of banana milk. You grew up in the States. This sort of thing is a little more accepted there.
We’re in the same generation, and Koreans in the diaspora aren’t that different. We’re looking at the same consequences.
Still. It seems less fraught. You have friends who can be together in public. It makes a difference.
Areum shrugs, pulls the last of her banana milk through the tiny straw, before it hits her. Okay, but wait, are you saying that she is into me then? This isn’t just another stupid one-sided thing on my end? It’s not just in my head?
5
When Areum shows up for dinners again, Seol starts including every single thing Areum hates—cilantro, celery, cucumbers, carrots, capers. Namu rolls his eyes as Seol feels victorious every time she sees Areum wrinkle her nose and try to pick out the offending ingredients, but the cilantro has been finely minced with other herbs, the cucumber thinly grated into a pickled jellyfish salad, the celery and carrots chopped into a beautiful mirepoix. The capers are artfully folded into pasta. There’s no running, and Areum knows it, wears her disgruntlement on her face—and Seol thinks this is a kind of satisfaction, too, that Areum still keeps showing up, if only to sigh into her plate.
6
Areum takes to stealing into the kitchen late at night to make herself toast and scrambled eggs. Sometimes, she eats bowls of cereal, whatever has her fancy for the week. Sometimes, she makes herself an exorbitant lunch—haemool pajeon she eats off a cast iron pan heated in the oven so the edges get crispier and crispier as she eats, spaghetti with a bacon and tomato sauce finished with a pour of chili oil and a pat of butter, kurobuta sausage crisped on a pan and eaten with soft-scrambled eggs over rice. Seol doesn’t need the kitchen to start dinner until three p.m., so Areum takes her time, makes small talk with the other residents as they float in and out, drawn in by the smells of garlic or frying batter or bacon, asking what she’s making, it smells so delicious, but stopping short of asking if they can have some, too.
5
When Areum shows up for dinners again, Seol starts including every single thing Areum hates—cilantro, celery, cucumbers, carrots, capers. Namu rolls his eyes as Seol feels victorious every time she sees Areum wrinkle her nose and try to pick out the offending ingredients, but the cilantro has been finely minced with other herbs, the cucumber thinly grated into a pickled jellyfish salad, the celery and carrots chopped into a beautiful mirepoix. The capers are artfully folded into pasta. There’s no running, and Areum knows it, wears her disgruntlement on her face—and Seol thinks this is a kind of satisfaction, too, that Areum still keeps showing up, if only to sigh into her plate.
6
Areum takes to stealing into the kitchen late at night to make herself toast and scrambled eggs. Sometimes, she eats bowls of cereal, whatever has her fancy for the week. Sometimes, she makes herself an exorbitant lunch—haemool pajeon she eats off a cast iron pan heated in the oven so the edges get crispier and crispier as she eats, spaghetti with a bacon and tomato sauce finished with a pour of chili oil and a pat of butter, kurobuta sausage crisped on a pan and eaten with soft-scrambled eggs over rice. Seol doesn’t need the kitchen to start dinner until three p.m., so Areum takes her time, makes small talk with the other residents as they float in and out, drawn in by the smells of garlic or frying batter or bacon, asking what she’s making, it smells so delicious, but stopping short of asking if they can have some, too.
Namu asks if Seol isn’t worried Areum will just start avoiding dinners again. Seol says Areum hates cooking for herself, she goes through phases of wanting to try things then gets annoyed because it’s too much of a pain in the ass to cook for one.
Namu says it’s stupid that Seol knows so much about Areum. Seol says it’s part of hospitality. Namu doesn’t have to say anything for Seol to know it’s bullshit. She agrees this is stupid, but memorizing Areum’s habits, learning her likes and dislikes, remembering random little things about Areum that she can shape into a meal and return back to her—Seol thinks this is as far as she can go right now.
7
It’s been thirteen months since Areum moved into the sharehouse; the first time they really interacted was at two a.m. a week in. She was in the kitchen, looking for a snack, when Seol came in to get a cup of water, catching Areum chewing on a Chocopie stuffed into her mouth as she opened a bag of Turtle Chips.
7
It’s been thirteen months since Areum moved into the sharehouse; the first time they really interacted was at two a.m. a week in. She was in the kitchen, looking for a snack, when Seol came in to get a cup of water, catching Areum chewing on a Chocopie stuffed into her mouth as she opened a bag of Turtle Chips.
Hi, Seol had said awkwardly, wishing she wasn’t in her sleep shirt and shorts.
Hi, Areum had mumbled around her Chocopie, hastily chewing and swallowing and hoping Seol would somehow fail to notice the empty packages of Pocky and Binch and Hi-Chew scattered on the counter before her. They blinked at each other, until finally the silence was unbearable and Areum blurted out, You buy the wrong brand of Chocopie.
Oh? Seol said.
Yeah, Lotte brand is dry and no good. Orion brand is the right one.
I see.
Yeah.
8
Areum started writing out of loneliness because writing was the way she learned to communicate with the world, to put her vulnerabilities out there and hope someone would understand. She kept writing because it became habit, her one marketable skill, she says, and she likes the ways it allows her to connect with people and tell their stories, too, but, sometimes, she finds English limiting, like its damn reliance on gendered pronouns. Namu knows—when Areum Skypes with her family and she talks about her crush, Areum always switches to Korean, so she can talk freely about Seol without outing either of them. Her parents think Seol sounds like a stand-up guy, though it’s risky that he’s a chef—it’s not a very stable profession, is it, and aren’t the hours awful?—but they’re relieved Areum at least has someone. She’s in her thirties. She shouldn’t be alone forever, should get married and have kids.
8
Areum started writing out of loneliness because writing was the way she learned to communicate with the world, to put her vulnerabilities out there and hope someone would understand. She kept writing because it became habit, her one marketable skill, she says, and she likes the ways it allows her to connect with people and tell their stories, too, but, sometimes, she finds English limiting, like its damn reliance on gendered pronouns. Namu knows—when Areum Skypes with her family and she talks about her crush, Areum always switches to Korean, so she can talk freely about Seol without outing either of them. Her parents think Seol sounds like a stand-up guy, though it’s risky that he’s a chef—it’s not a very stable profession, is it, and aren’t the hours awful?—but they’re relieved Areum at least has someone. She’s in her thirties. She shouldn’t be alone forever, should get married and have kids.
Namu says, You can’t hide behind Korean forever, but stops when she glares at him, her eyes flashing with an anger and resentment and pain he, too, is familiar with, as she sweeps all the crumpled papers from their McDonalds run into the trash can. She likes how consistent the McDonalds cheeseburger is, she said earlier that night when they were walking home, each holding a bag of fast food and a Coke Zero. No matter where you are, the McDonalds cheeseburger will be the McDonalds cheeseburger.
Seol is going to be mad you missed her dinner for this, Namu had said. She made noodles with a spicy pork ragu. It was good.
What does she make that isn’t good?
This stupid crush where you both only talk to me and not each other is getting really old.
9
They kiss for the first time in the back of a convenience store after eating jumeokbap and cup ramyeon on a stormy summer night. It had started pouring rain as Areum was walking home from the subway, and she ducked into the store, texting Namu to meet her with an umbrella, please. He sent Seol instead to pick up ice cream and Coke Zero, and she walked in to see Areum at the cashier, paying for a pile of snacks, cup ramyeon, and canned coffee.
9
They kiss for the first time in the back of a convenience store after eating jumeokbap and cup ramyeon on a stormy summer night. It had started pouring rain as Areum was walking home from the subway, and she ducked into the store, texting Namu to meet her with an umbrella, please. He sent Seol instead to pick up ice cream and Coke Zero, and she walked in to see Areum at the cashier, paying for a pile of snacks, cup ramyeon, and canned coffee.
Hey, Areum said, sliding her snacks into her reusable bag. Did you bring an umbrella?
When Seol didn’t say anything because she was busy mentally cursing Namu, Areum called out, Seol-ah, Seol-ah, Yoonseol-ah, her voice light and sing-song-y.
Seol had never liked her name, trying on different names when she was abroad, using and discarding monikers with every Starbucks order. Monica, Cindy, Lizzie. Jennifer, Jessica, Jasmine. Christine, Christina, Crystal. Nothing seemed to fit—Suzy, Hanna, Michelle—each name feeling even more strange. Jo Yoonseol—that was apparently who she was.
Jo Yoonseol, Areum said again, trying to get Seol’s attention in the air-conditioned convenience store, and Seol thought it funny, how a name can fit so correctly in someone else’s mouth and make you feel just right.
10
Anyway, so, they kiss for the first time in the back of the convenience store. Once Seol gets over mentally cursing Namu for watching too many Korean dramas, she buys them jumeokbap and Coke Zero as Areum adds boiling water to two of her cup ramyeon, and they stand and eat at the counter, watching the rain pour onto the street outside.
10
Anyway, so, they kiss for the first time in the back of the convenience store. Once Seol gets over mentally cursing Namu for watching too many Korean dramas, she buys them jumeokbap and Coke Zero as Areum adds boiling water to two of her cup ramyeon, and they stand and eat at the counter, watching the rain pour onto the street outside.
It’s easy to talk to Areum, Seol thinks. Areum laughs easily, chats easily, hides her self-consciousness behind friendly smiles and an easy-going demeanor. She flirts casually, looks directly in Seol’s eyes and holds her gaze, and Seol thinks that maybe this doesn’t have to be so complicated or intense. Maybe it’s enough to figure out if this—this right here, this charge between them—is real.
Seol’s the one who leans in, who closes the gap between them. Areum thinks it’s appropriate that their first kiss tastes spicy.
11
You know what I like about her? Seol asks Namu over beer and dried squid and roasted peanuts. She reminds me of you. She doesn’t give a shit what I do. She doesn’t have those kinds of expectations.
11
You know what I like about her? Seol asks Namu over beer and dried squid and roasted peanuts. She reminds me of you. She doesn’t give a shit what I do. She doesn’t have those kinds of expectations.
She wants you to be happy, Namu says, gently correcting her.
12
When they finally fall into bed together, Areum whispers, Nobody has to know.
12
When they finally fall into bed together, Areum whispers, Nobody has to know.
This feels like a secret, Seol says softly, lying on her back as she stares at the ceiling, her arms wrapped around her ribs, hands gathered over her stomach. But maybe there’s nothing wrong with it being a secret – then she laughs. I feel like a cliché.
Areum laughs, leaning against the wall and unwrapping a chocolate bar. She can see the sweat cooling on Seol’s forehead, wants to reach out to take Seol’s hands in hers, leans over to place a piece of chocolate in her mouth instead.
Some secrets are good, and all love stories are kind of cliché, Areum says. Besides, it’s nobody’s business what we are to each other.
Seol laughs, relaxes into the way they toggle between English and Korean without thinking. You know that’s not true. Eventually, our families will have to know, though I guess between my Catholic parents and your Presbyterian ones …
And you know how deep denial runs. How long do you think they’ll just say we’re friends?
As long as they can. What chocolate is this?
Royce Milk. Namu brought some from New York. I like their Creamy Milk better, but this is good, too.
10
Love is when dinner is biji-jjigae, haemool pajeon, and a bunch of different banchans, Areum thinks. Love is also ramyeon at one a.m. when everyone else is asleep, honey butter pancakes at noon on a rainy Sunday, Orion-brand Chocopie in bed on a lazy morning when they don’t want to get up and put clothes on. Love is revenge cilantro snuck into kimbap that makes Areum put down her chopsticks and glare across the room at Seol, who thinks it’s cute how Areum’s nostrils flare in irritation at the taste of cilantro flooding her mouth.
10
Love is when dinner is biji-jjigae, haemool pajeon, and a bunch of different banchans, Areum thinks. Love is also ramyeon at one a.m. when everyone else is asleep, honey butter pancakes at noon on a rainy Sunday, Orion-brand Chocopie in bed on a lazy morning when they don’t want to get up and put clothes on. Love is revenge cilantro snuck into kimbap that makes Areum put down her chopsticks and glare across the room at Seol, who thinks it’s cute how Areum’s nostrils flare in irritation at the taste of cilantro flooding her mouth.
Love is a lot of things, Seol thinks. It’s a lot of fear and uncertainty because they’re facing loss and rejection and pain, but love is also saying fuck the future, let’s rest in the now and let the present be enough because here’s a bowl of freshly-made kalgukusu— neither of us actually likes kalguksu, but you made kalguksu, so we need to eat this before the noodles absorb too much broth and become bloated and inedible.
Love is Areum slow-scrambling eggs and dousing the soft, creamy eggs with finely chopped chives and spoon-feeding them to Seol when she has a cold.
It’s intentionally burning Namu’s toast when he teases them for how long it took them finally to talk to each other.
Love is a lot of things, they think, and they make it up to Namu with gaejang and hwe eaten outside in the cooling humidity on a September evening, inviting the other sharehouse residents to join them and share in this meal—and maybe, one day, Seol and Areum think, they’ll be able to share their love, but, for now, being together, sharing this love—this is enough.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.