Tongue by Kyung-Ran Jo

smelled it and touched it and wet it like it was a small fruit that would burst and lose its juices if he didn’t take care of it, and he waited for it to ripen and open up like a fig. That’s how I was able to get over the tomato, although it took almost a year.
    I remember making a tomato dressing to go with a seafood salad at one of my cooking classes. I told my students that it’s best to find a just-picked, fresh, juicy tomato, although it’s hard to find one in the city. One student joked, Isn’t that what men want in a woman? Now my face turns red for no reason, like it did then.
    “Who said that?” asks Mun-ju.
    “I don’t remember.”
    “Se-yeon?”
    I don’t say anything.
    “God, that’s so her.”
    “Yeah, Se-yeon is red and pretty like a tomato.”
    “You’re ridiculous. Just watch, you’re going to dream about a tomato tonight.” Mun-ju throws a mushroom at me.
    “Can you look after Paulie for three days?”
    “Are you going somewhere?”
    “Yeah, Singapore.”
    “Oh, it’s already April.”
    “I don’t think I can put him in a kennel this time. He’s really on edge.”
    “Ask Seok-ju. Then Paulie will get better quickly, too.”
    “You know she doesn’t like him.”
    “It’s three days! She can’t watch him for three days, the dog of the man she can’t live without?”
    “You’ll do it, right?”
    Mun-ju is quiet.
    The most potent of canine abilities is detecting and isolating a preferred scent from a whole tangle of smells. In the beginning of spring, Paulie stopped smelling like Seok-ju. Even when Paulie’s next to me, his ears are pressed back against his head and his tail lists limply to the side. It’s the position he assumes when he’s about to defend himself. It must be hard for Paulie that the person he needs is no longer around. It’s gotten harder and harder to leave Paulie at home by himself. And now I’ll be gone for three whole days. After Seok-ju, I cherish Uncle and Mun-ju the most, and so does Paulie.
    “It’s hard. It feels like it’s getting harder and harder,” sighs Mun-ju.
    “What is?”
    “Just … everything. Life.”
    I’m sure it’s not everything. There were moments when it wasn’t hard. I had many moments when I was happy.
    “It’s okay, Mun-ju.”
    “What is?”
    “Just … everything.”
    “That’s lame.”
    I want to tell her that onions aren’t always bad. That it’s better to dream about onions than not to dream at all. Because dreaming must be proof that you’re thinking nonstop about the thing you desire. But why does desire come hand in hand with repression?
    At one side of the table I put a salad of lettuce, three kinds of herbs, thinly sliced onions and cucumber, and lightly fried tofu with an Asian-inspired dressing. In April, and when you feel tired and lethargic, salad is the perfect choice. Not too stimulating, yet it will put a bounce in your step.
    Mun-ju falls asleep. I close the front door and windows, which I’d left open a crack, and turn off the lights. There might be a sign that Grandmother came for a visit. I take a blanket and cover Mun-ju with it. I gently take Mun-ju’s hand, poking out from under the blanket, for a little bit. When you’re falling asleep, your senses slowly drift to sleep, too. The first one to go is taste, then sight, then smell, then your sense of hearing gradually falls asleep, too. Touch is the last sense to be lulled to sleep. Always alert until the very end, to warn us of any impending danger. In sleep, Mun-ju’s cheeks glow like rubies in the dark. Everyone shines like that, sensually, as they fall asleep. The sex you have before sleeping is the most profound and intimate. But when you’re finally asleep, all senses become isolated. What would be in my trunk other than onions or tomatoes or water?

CHAPTER 17
    IN APRIL SINGAPORE, also known as “The Earth’s Kitchen” or “The World Capital of Food,” hosts the World Gourmet Summit. This year seventy events will be held