Chapter 6 – Giving Food
A week had passed since then.
Kishimoto really kept her words.
In fact, she didn’t talk to me at school, but waited for me to come in front of the subway station platform every day.
It would be a good situation to misunderstand if anyone saw this, but I was innocent because neither she nor I was thinking that way.
I was talking to her on the train as usual and asked her about the main character.
I thought something would have progressed because it had already been a week since she transferred
“Come to think of it Kishimoto, you seem to be on good terms with Sakamoto.”
Then Kishimoto, who was humming while in LINE1LINE is a messenger app used in Japan. on her smartphone, looked at me.
“What, why are you asking me that all of a sudden? Ha ha! Are you jealous?”
Her sudden questioning left me speechless.
And Kishimoto said, “unlike how he looks, how cute is he~ Cutie! Cutie!” as she poked me in the ribs with her elbow, putting her smartphone in a cardigan pocket.
“Well, Sakomoto is not a bad guy. But if you’re not sure if you’re interested him, are you?”
“Why is that?”
“From the beginning, I’m not supposed to mess around with someone who has a partner.”
What, do I feel like I’m stealing?
Kishimoto looked up at me saying that and laughed.
Well, it was a very wholesome view of love, unlike the one of a high school girl, when there are so many carnivores2Usually used to qualify men who really wants to be in a relationship with a girl/woman. nowadays.
But it was a very difficult position for me as an observer.
A person who was believed to be the main heroine of the original book confessed to their friend that they had no feelings for the main character.
Was this okay? What a scrambled love.
It couldn’t be helped to think like that on its own.
Although we had been on our way home together every day for a week, Kishimoto, who had a deep conversation with me for the first time, constantly looked at the scenery beyond the window.
As she stared blankly from the side, as if it were a picture, suddenly I heard a strange noise from her stomach.
Kishimoto looked up in surprise and made eye contact with me.
She lowered her head, her ears reddening, and glancing as if she had thought of something, she said,
“You said your house is a restaurant, right? Feed me.”
It was a popular restaurant named after Kim Yoo-sung’s mother, Lee Mi-ja, and was a Korean restaurant built by remodeling a two-story wooden building in a residential area.
The main menu was Korean yakiniku and Korean food.
It was a big hit among Korean students and local regulars who missed home-cooked meals because they offered three or four basic side dishes for free which was rare in Japan, where prices are basically high.
Just at the time she was cleaning up the table where the customer left, my mother in the hall welcomed me and looked surprised.
“Yoo-sung, who’s the girl next to you?”
This was my second time bringing a friend home since I entered high school.
Even so, the first time was almost half a year ago, so my mother couldn’t help but be surprised.
“This way – “
“Nice to meet you! Mother! My name is Kishimoto Rika, I’m Kim-kun’s classmate!”
My voice, which was about to introduce her in person, was buried by the lively greeting of Kishimoto, who suddenly intervened.
Perhaps she was embarrassed when she, who looked like a foreigner, suddenly talked to her, my mother stuttered and asked in English.
“Wh- where are you from?”
“? I’m from Shizuoka.”
Kishimoto accepted it in a naive way.
The point here was that both were a million light years away from the native pronunciation.
The battle between Konglish and Japlish made my heart grow bigger.
I decided to explain in advance before more misunderstandings piled up.
“Mother, she is a native Japanese who speaks as many as 0 other languages.”
“Who speaks 0 other languages?”
Kishimoto was mad at me! She huffed and hit me on the chest as if to mark it, it was a cotton fist, so it didn’t hurt much.
My mother, who was watching us with a happy eye for some reason, suddenly clapped her hands and said,
“Ah, look at this. Both of you haven’t eaten dinner yet, have you? Kishimoto, if you don’t mind, let’s eat together. I’ll make something delicious for you.”
That’s when Kishimoto remembered her original purpose, and with a bright face, she yelled a “Hooray!”.
From my point of view, exaggerating gestures were honestly cringe-worthy, but it seemed like it was just a cute act for adults.
I sat her down at an empty table, and my mother, who was about to enter the kitchen, suddenly beckoned me.
I put down my bag and approached her, wondering what was going on, she whispered in my ear and asked.
“What’s your relationship with her?”
“Really? That’s too bad. She has a bright and soft personality, which make her look like a good daughter-in-law.”
What is it? Was my mother’s brain dominated by love comedy?
She saw her son’s friend who she had not even met for 10 minutes as a daughter-in-law?
“Don’t be silly all of a sudden, just give me food.”
As I pushed her back while saying that my mother went into the kitchen disappointed.
Then I took a break and approached the refrigerator to take out a water bottle and a cup. I suddenly remembered something, so I asked Kishimoto, who was sitting at the table, moving her legs.
“Which one do you want, Sprite or Coke?”
Then her expression brightened.
I nodded and returned with two cans of cold drinks and a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
Kishimoto opened the lid of the can as soon as she got the red coke can from me.
I asked her with a sip of cold water.
“You still don’t drink soda at home, do you?”
Then Kishimoto nodded with coke foam on her mouth.
“It’s better to eat it every once in a while, than to eat it every day, right? That makes the difference.”
Empathizing with her philosophy of some sort, I asked about what I was most curious about on the way home.
“But is it okay to eat at my house? Aren’t your parents waiting for you?
Then, Kishimoto, who had emptied the can of coke before I knew it, tilted her head, and said,
“Didn’t I tell you? Mama said she was coming home late today, so I had to eat out anyway. I’ve wanted to come to Kim-kun’s restaurant for a while.”
The mystery as why she suddenly asked for food on the way home had finally been solved.
Well, that was the only reason why Kishimoto, would suddenly ask me for food.
When I headed to the self-bar to prepare the side dishes on behalf of my busy mother in the kitchen, Kishimoto who put her chopsticks in her mouth, suddenly asked with a calm face.
“Oh! Can I go up to Kim-kun’s room after I finish eating?”
Embarrassed by her sudden suggestion, I stopped holding the tongs in my hand.
“If it’s not today, we don’t know when I’ll come back you know? When I was in Shizuoka, I only had girl as friends, so I wanted to go to a boy’s room at least once.”
Rattle – Rattle –
I pretended to be as nonchalant as I could and returned to the table with a plate of side dishes.
“Do as you please.”
Shiva3Shiva is one of the principal deities of Hinduism. was freaking me out.
“Here! You’ve been waiting for a long time, right?”
What my mother brought out with a smile was stir-fried spicy pork and unscented Cheonggukjang4Cheonggukjang is a traditional Korean food made by fermenting soybeans., the store’s signature menu.
Although it was an odorless Cheonggukjang that had been localized in Japan, it was made with its unique savory taste.
“Wow! It looks delicious!”
Kishimoto, who already had chopsticks in her mouth for a long time, looked down at the food on the table with sparkling eyes.
It was not the stir-fried spicy pork, but the Cheonggukjang that caught her eyes.
What was it? Was it because she had adult taste?
As I looked at her in bewilderment, Kishimoto shouted in a bright voice.
“Mother! My favorite dish is the Natto-jiru!”
Then, my mother, who was putting down the Cheonggukjang, said happily.
“Oh, really? Then you’ll eat this well too?”
“Yes? Isn’t it Natto-jiru?”
Maybe they felt something was wrong with each other’s conversations, and when Kishimoto tilted her head cutely, my mother explained with a small smile.
“Lady, this is Cheonggukjang, Korean natto-jiru.”
Considering it was her first time saying those words, her pronunciation was pretty good.
She didn’t seem to have noticed the person who actually said it, so I decided not to mention it.
“It’s good as it is, and it’s good if you mix it with rice.”
As she said so, my mother directly poured the Cheonggukjang in an earthen pot and handed it to Kishimoto.
Then Kishimoto looked down curiously at the odorless Cheonggukjang, took a spoonful and put it in her mouth.
Then, she opened her eyes wide and hurriedly mixed rice and Cheonggukjang together and began to eat.
Fortunately, it seemed to suit her taste.
Watching the scene with a ladle in her hand, my mother said to Kishimoto,
“Lady, eat a lot. If it’s not enough, I’ll cook for you again.”
Kishimoto, who had inflated her cheeks like a squirrel, bowed to my mother, saying so in a clumsy Korean, and began to covet only Cheonggukjang without giving eyes to the stir-fried spicy pork that came with it.
‘What? It’s scary.’
It was like she had Cheonggukjang instead of blood.