Free Tongue by Kyung-Ran Jo Page B

he drops the ball at my feet. I throw it again, far. His brown hair flying, Paulie darts after it. When Paulie runshe is more beautiful and more alive than when he pads along slowly, reluctantly. Paulie doesn’t tire of chasing after the ball. I want to go home. I want to know if our love was real.
    I mime throwing the ball. Paulie leaps up and wags his tail and rubs against my legs and sends me signals—Throw it, throw the ball already. I’m tired. Let’s go home, Paulie! Paulie focuses intently on my hand that holds the ball. He’s more excited now than he had been during the actual game of fetch. I raise the ball high above my head and start running backward. Paulie springs up into the air ever more powerfully, over and over again. Not being allowed to touch the ball works him into a frenzy. Is the game of fetch not about sharing the ball but about heightening pleasure by drawing out the anticipation? I may have just discovered something new. I slowly squeeze the ball, solid and responsive to the touch.
    When I first started offering cooking classes, Mun-ju guaranteed she would take care of everything, especially attracting students. Since she worked in publishing from the moment she entered college, she was the one in our group with the heftiest address book. But it turned out there was a steady demand of women who wanted to learn how to cook. Not as a hobby, but to satisfy a growing interest in eating better. These days, being a good cook is just as admirable as speaking a foreign language or playing an instrument. And after a while the number of male students multiplied, probably because women are attracted to men who know how to cook. Although it was sweet to see couples signing up for classes together, I preferred living with someone who didn’t know how to make a thing. I need to be with someone who waits for my food, who eats my creations.
    One day Mun-ju brought a new student to class, a woman wearing a minidress in a large floral print, her hair tied with a retro silk scarf and holding a brown tote, so tall she stood out wherever she went. Every part of her appeared to be made withcare. Her name was Lee Se-yeon. Mun-ju introduced us, explaining that she had met the former model while working for the now-defunct Fashioniste . I remembered seeing her when I worked at Nove. She was a VIP and sometimes rented out the place for a gathering or to throw a party. At first she came once a week to the Bread and Cooking class, and after about a month she registered for Italian Cooking, appearing in my kitchen twice a week. She walked into our house looking like a well-dressed mannequin in a show window, legs as long as a flamingo’s. Though she had retired from modeling she remained attuned to trends and enjoyed standing out in a crowd. She was the kind of woman who couldn’t stand not to be noticed. She was slender, as if she was terrified of eating and only lapped up the juices seeping out of fruit. It was hard to believe that someone like her wanted to learn how to cook. Deceptively, she ate more than her physique suggested and enjoyed it. When I discovered that she made a beeline for the kitchen when entering her house like the rest of us, my trepidation melted away. She appeared even more luminous—raindrops thrown into the spotlight. If I were a man I would want to take her to an isolated island and have her to myself. And she would have to spend the rest of her life there.
    While we waited for the food to finish cooking in the oven, we usually gathered to drink tea or make a snack. If he was upstairs in his office, he came into the kitchen to grab a bite. The more that time passes, the more I think of the first time she saw him: She raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes just for a moment, then she slightly turned her face away, pretending to look elsewhere. Then she glanced back at him gently and smiled, her eyes open wide. It was an audacious and gorgeous smile. That brief second lingered for a long time;