Saturday night at dinner, Busan and I were talking, while I tried to load some of the curry udong from his side of the table into my bowl. The noodles were slippery and heavy and far from my reach, so I was struggling. Busan sat there watching, amused, until some of the noodles slid through my chopsticks from a pretty good height and fell back into the bowl, splashing his sweater with curry sauce. “야!” He gave me a dirty look as he started tenderly dabbing at the microscopic spots on his sweater.
“Well, you could have done as any normal boyfriend would have done, and helped me when I was having a hard time with it, instead of just staring and then it never would’ve happened….”
“I’m — I’m normal! You know. You’re independent. You don’t like when I do for you!”
The next morning, in his spartan kitchen I was trying to work out how to stir the scrambled eggs in a way that would prevent them from burning on the bottom of the pan, while also not scratching his cookware with the cheap metal spatula that makes up his entire cooking utensil arsenal. I grumbled to myself about the eggs burning and what the fuck was I meant to do.
Before I knew it, Busan’s arm flashed out in front of me, as he just completely turned the burner off. With no warning. I turned on my heels and shot him a look. “What the fuck…..”
He smiled in such a way that I’m still not sure whether he was being a smart ass or genuine, and then said, “See? I’m a good boyfriend. I help.”
He’s right. I’m independent.
