His eyes did look very lonely, it was true. I didn’t know what to say. All of the social skills I’d mastered during my twenty-five years on Earth seemed useless, so the only thing to do was apply myself to the raw flounder hwe in front of me, my chopsticks conveying the morsels of fish to my mouth at an almost competitive speed. He had his chopsticks up against his lips as he looked at me, smiling. Is there something in my teeth, why are you looking at me when I’m eating?

—What do you think you’re eating now?

—Flounder. Wait, is this rockfish? I can’t really tell fish apart. I just like whatever’s expensive.

—You’re right and wrong. You’re eating rockfish right now, but what you’re tasting isn’t rockfish. The taste on the tip of your tongue is the taste of the universe.

—What? What (bullshit) are you talking about?

—The rockfish that we eat, and our own bodies, these are all part of the universe. Therefore, we’re universes tasting the universe.

—Uh . . .

—Each of us is a universe and, as part of the larger universe, we live and move and have relations with each other—isn’t that fascinating?

Now that I thought about it, his gaze did look a little unfocused. Was he part of some cult? I suddenly remembered hearing about all the weirdos who drifted into extension courses like ours. I had one hand gripping my bag in case I needed to make a run for it, but he didn’t seem about to drag me off by the scruff of my neck to a meeting. And now that the topic of conversation had reached the existential matters of the universe, there was nowhere else for it to go. My gaze drifted back to the tattoo on his fingers, and when he noticed me looking, he quickly tried to draw his sleeve down to hide it.

—I like your tattoo. I’ve been wondering about it since the first time I saw it. About what it might be.

—Actually, I was in a motorcycle accident in high school. I got the tattoo done to cover the scars.

—Oh, I see.

—It’s not like I was wild or anything back then.

—I can see that.

Unable to bear the silence that felt heavier than the universe, I ended up downing all the soju we’d ordered. He must’ve thought I needed more to drink because he kept refilling my glass as he sipped his own, and with all the fish and the pouring of each other’s shots, our faces soon became red.

—The more transparent one is the flounder.

—Excuse me?

—The more transparent one of the two is the flounder. That’s easier to remember. The chewier one is the rockfish.

—Why don’t you call me Rockfish from now on? Because I’m so chewy.

Jesus, I’m losing it.

—No, I’ll call you Flounder. Because I can see right through you.