My friend moved in with me. We bought a giant jar of kimchi from the Korean market earlier tonight. “Too bad it’ll be fresh,” she said. Fresh? Yes. She explained that the right way to prepare it is to leave it out for three days to really get sour.
She made seaweed soup for her birthday and I felt more nourished than I have in weeks. We did little dances and plopped down on the couch to watch crappy shows. Two people can be a family, did you know? I never really know until they are here, carving new routes through the air around me, directing me out of this maze that only I can see.
We left the kimchi out and within an hour it started hissing like gas escaping from a dead body. “I’m going to write a children’s book called Annie and the Killer Kimchi,” I said. She gave me a look.
I can’t sleep. Until we move her things over, we sleep like sisters in my cramped bed and I can’t bear to lie down until I’m sure I will fall quickly. I’ve been sitting around the living room listening to the kimchi music, which is streaming steadily now. It sounds like cabbage being born, like soda fizzing in a baby belly. And I want to laugh out loud but there’s somebody else here now, and I’ve never been so thankful for the courtesy.