“Well, it was delicious.”
Ms. Anne leaves a somewhat awkward comment in Korean, expressing that the meal was good.
Though we don’t know where she learned it, her ability to handle basic conversations shows she’s picked up quite a bit.
We’ve heard that everyday phrases we take for granted can be difficult for foreigners to grasp.
Especially expressions like having various words for a single color—red, crimson, dark red, bright red—or phrases like “to be beyond one’s strength.”
In any case, after the earlier commotion with the mice, peace returned to the house.
We had just finished an early lunch at 11:36 AM when the thought arose: “What should we do for the next three hours?”
Just as the flow of conversation had been unpredictable, suddenly a mascot exchange began.
“Looking at it this way, it’s kind of cute.”
Removing any preconceived notions, it does resemble a chubby hamster with a slightly longer tail when held.
The texture felt under the fingertips, somewhat stiff but soft when stroked the right way.
It’s far different from the stiff fur of Gomtaengi, which feels almost like an artificial plush toy.
Thinking practically, taking something this realistic out in public might cause problems.
Then again, maybe the stuffed animal option is better?
With three hours still to spare before three o’clock, I laid about in the room patting my now full stomach while waiting for the time.
Ms. Anne’s chatter continued as we awaited 3 PM.
“Magical Girl, why do you hide it?”
“Huh?”
Amidst the flow of idle chatter, a sudden unexpected question.
“Why do you hide that you’re a Magical Girl?”
Well, why exactly?
Undoubtedly, in the United States, Magical Girls are treated akin to celebrities, their real names known and almost regarded as semi-celebrities.
In Japan, while real names might not be disclosed, I know that post-transformation Magical Girl names are idolized on stages.
Comparatively, Korea’s Magical Girl culture is much more closed-off.
“Uh… because…”
Until now, it seemed natural, but faced directly with the question, I couldn’t answer immediately.
Isn’t it because in anime or manga, hiding one’s identity is standard?
But if that’s the case, why isn’t it the same in their country of origin, Japan?
‘Right, why?’
Attempting to answer but only raising a finger to my chin, pondering together.
Well, what if it doesn’t matter if it’s known?
If the identity of a Magical Girl were revealed in the U.S., what would happen?
First, those around me would know my job as a Magical Girl.
But how would people react?
Let’s hypothetically create a Magical Girl “K” in my mind’s eye and imagine her reactions.
Let’s say she’s about middle school or high school age.
“Yo, Sky. Try that over there.”
“Uh… again?”
“Hurry up! Do it!”
“By the power of love and justiceeeeee…”
“Hahahaha!”
‘My goodness…’
Imagining the situation made me inwardly curse at the sheer embarrassment.
Perhaps during an actual monster attack, sympathy might arise, but among friends, ridicule would surely ensue.
It won’t work. At least not in Korea.
Perhaps exposing only the transformed form, like Japan does, would be acceptable, but revealing the pre-transformation identity is akin to social suicide.
Unless the transformation spell is as less embarrassing as mine, 95% of those who have inherited the mantle of a Magical Girl from childhood would surely be averse to disclosure.
Considering various aspects, the conclusion formed in my mind’s eye was stated aloud.
“Uh, suicide prevention campaign…?”
“What?”
A clumsy and vague explanation, and as expected, she tilted her head in confusion at the incomprehensible answer.
Time passed, and it was an hour before the appointed 3 PM.
Even so, bringing a visitor all the way from the U.S., it felt wrong to not let her taste some Korean chicken. I retrieved a frozen slab of meat from the freezer.
Some say “Simple is Best.” Here we have thinly sliced pork belly.
I turned up the induction cooktop and placed the frozen hunk of meat directly into a frying pan.
As the previously shriveled meat began to expand, the sizzling cry of cooking meat danced in my ears.
Even with the hood on full blast, the smell of pork couldn’t be fully contained and started spreading throughout the house.
As the aroma grew stronger, I stopped mid-flip with my long wooden chopsticks and hurried to open all the windows.
“What’s this?”
“It’s called pork belly…”
“Samgyeop, what?”
Ms. Anne tilted her head as she awkwardly attempted to pronounce “samgyeop.”
Guessing that a direct translation wouldn’t work, I sought assistance from the translator app.
Using my non-cooking hand, I awkwardly entered the Korean phrase ‘pork belly’.
“[돼지 뱃살] -> [pork belly]”
Repeating the pronunciation provided by the translator app, I awkwardly muttered what sounded like a bargain-bin Korean-style English.
“Uh… pork belly.”
“A-ha! Pork belly!”
Thankfully, the translator’s interpretation was correct, and Ms. Anne clapped exaggeratedly, clearly pleased.
Just as brown began to appear on the surface of the pork, I retrieved two dipping sauce dishes and generously scooped soybean paste into one, then lightly sprinkled coarse salt in the other.
No need for lettuce or sesame leaves. Just white rice, pork belly, and two types of seasonings.
To a foreigner’s eyes, this simple table setup might appear modest.
Fearing she might feel under-served, she glanced towards the remaining chicken.
However, when dipped in the magical soybean paste, her reaction changed.
“Oh, this sauce…!”
As expected, with wide eyes, she covered her mouth with her fork-hand in astonishment. Even if Western countries don’t traditionally enjoy plain white rice, her empty rice bowl after we’d cooked so much pork suggested otherwise.
While washing dishes, I felt a quiet sense of pride for merely having grilled meat.
With two meals concluded, true freedom arrived at exactly 3 PM.
We parted ways, having made a week’s worth of conversation with her.
Even as she was led away by the man in a suit, we were discussing what kind of sauce she’d dipped the meat in.
“Sam, jang.”
“Sam… jang.”
After she’d gone, I realized something.
Even if I’d input “삼겹살” directly into the translator without using “돼지 뱃살,” it still translated to “pork belly.”
Apparently, even casual Korean expressions can be properly interpreted by the translator.
Not bad for a translator, right?
“The smell is still lingering…”
As Shiyeon’s expected homecoming approached, I grew anxious.
Despite a good deal of airing, the smell had yet to dissipate fully through the open windows.
I certainly don’t want Shiyeon to think I secretly ordered fried chicken and grilled meat.
Discarding it feels wasteful, and having just eaten doesn’t leave much room for more.
In such a situation, only one choice remains.
“Eat all the leftovers.”
“What? Even if I do, that’s way too much…”
“Quickly.”
Brief and urgent prodding eventually led Gomtaengi to latch onto the chicken box.
The smell of the now cold chicken had long since dissipated.
Next, a method was needed to combat the lingering smell of cooked meat.
Finally, I turned to an air freshener.
Spritz, spritz. The fine mist-like droplets scattered with every trigger of the spray bottle.
For a moment, the strong scent of artificial air freshener overwhelmed my nose.
In the midst of spraying frantically, I failed to hear the door open and close.
“… What are you doing?”
“Eh?”
I’d just made eye contact with Shiyeon as she walked in.
It’s rare to spray air freshener at home.
Next, Shiyeon’s eyes fell upon the chicken box on the dining table.
“Uh… uh…”
Including Gomtaengi’s muffled murmurs while nibbling at the chicken.
Alright, the chicken ordering has been discovered.
Moments later, Shiyeon took a quick breath, indicating her suspicion of the air freshener.
“Did you also grill meat?”
“Uh, yeah…”
Even through the air freshener, the rich smell of pork grease had been detected and questioned.
Cowering like a guilty person, I averted my gaze while occasionally sneaking a peek at Shiyeon’s face.
It will soon be dinner time at 5 PM…
Though it’s somewhat brazen, I’ll take the initiative to offer.
“Hey, what would you like me to order? Or should I grill some meat for you?”
“…No, it’s fine.”
And with that, Shiyeon walked into her room, bag in tow.
Though she pretends not to care, she’s undoubtedly quite upset.
Anxious now, I sit in the now-empty space.
“Hey, shall we stop eating now?”
“…It’s too late for that. Just eat.”
“Y-yes…”
In the solemn atmosphere, the only sound was Gomtaengi quietly chewing on soggy fried chicken.
That night, Shiyeon unexpectedly came to my room and spoke.
“I don’t want to be woken up anymore. I’ll manage on my own.”
“Oh, okay? Got it.”
I thought she might have something to say, but it turned out to be just the short notice that she’ll wake up by herself.
It was probably from that day onward.
Even the brief morning conversations that used to happen came to an abrupt halt.
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