“Was the crunching sound too loud when I was eating the radish kimchi?”
I asked, watching my husband rub his sleepy eyes as he came out of the bedroom after his nap. “It’s not just the sound,” he said, “but the sour smell from that fermented kimchi—it’s like a makgeolli brewery in here.”
Before I got married, I was once eating rice mixed with water and chewing on pickled radish in my apartment, where I lived with a roommate. Suddenly, the door burst open.
“Why do you chew so loudly? Can’t you eat more quietly?”
my roommate snapped.
“My boyfriend asked me what that noise was. It was so embarrassing I couldn't take it.”She slammed the door shut.
I had no idea anyone was home. I was so stunned. I quietly threw my rice away in the trash and went into my room, barely breathing. Peeking through the door crack, I saw a huge foreign man walk out of the apartment. I had no idea she brought men home during the day.
For me, that was just a funny story I remember whenever I eat pickled radish. But my elegant and graceful friend had a much more painful experience. One day, her boyfriend showed up unannounced. She had just made a simple meal: rice with water and some kimchi. He looked down at the table with disbelief and said,
“Even if you’re eating alone, shouldn’t you at least make the table look decent?”
That one sentence crushed her pride. She couldn’t even say a word. Embarrassed, she dumped her food into the sink. Later, with tears in her eyes, she said,
“What if he was disappointed in me?”
Her boyfriend came from a rich and prestigious family in Korea. Maybe the way she ate bothered him. His calls became less frequent, and eventually, they broke up. Watching her suffer while waiting for him to reach out again, I thought,
“Is that all it takes to fall out of love?”
On nights when my husband eats out, I stretch out and enjoy my alone time. I boil ramen, crack in an egg, and place the pot and some pickled radish on the table in front of the TV. Scooping hot noodles onto the lid, I happily slurp them down. Then, suddenly, I fall into a memory—like slipping underwater. My ears are filled with the crunching sound of radish, my eyes stay on the TV, but my mind wonders:
“Are those two refined people somewhere now, sitting at a perfectly set table, cutting their food with knives and forks?”
Can a careless word—spoken without thought—not only leave a deep scar in someone else’s heart, but also come back to haunt the person who said it, leaving them filled with guilt?
I always tell myself,
“If you don’t like something about someone, keep your mouth shut. And if you like something, don’t hold back your compliments.”
I make that resolution every New Year. But this mouth of mine keeps betraying me, blurting out the wrong things. That’s why I’ve grown afraid of meeting people—and spend more and more time alone.
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