Kerrand looked out of the window and said maybe. Basically, it was the term “hero” that was the problem. His character was simply an individual, like anyone else, having experiences we can all relate to, in search of his own story. He didn’t have to be an archaeologist. He could have been anything.

“There aren’t many other characters in your drawings,” I said.

I hesitated.

“No women.”

Kerrand looked straight at me. He sat down on the edge of the bed. I joined him, making sure I kept a good distance between us.

“Doesn’t he miss having women around?”

“Yes, he does.”

He laughed.

“Obviously. But it’s complicated.”

He walked over to the desk, ran his finger along the edge of a page distractedly, and then sat down again, lost in thought.

“Once something is drawn in ink, it’s fixed. I want to be sure it’s perfect.”

His hand brushed mine. I thought of the times he’d taken my hand, in the kitchen, at the museum. A feeling of weariness flooded through me. Was that what a woman had to be to earn the right to appear alongside Kerrand’s character? She had to be perfect?

“If I can’t convey it all with a single stroke …” he muttered, gathering up his drawing boards.

He tore off the top sheet, threw it in the bin. Wished me a happy Seollal.

MY MOTHER HAD sent me to look for her rubber gloves in her room. I found them between the shower and the bed, in a box filled with nail polish. Bits of dried omelette were stuck to the rubber. I scratched at it. Still stuck. I had to get the egg wet to soften it up and make it come off.

In the kitchen, my mother was preparing to gut the fugu. Before I sliced the tteok, I threw some leeks into the beef stock. My glasses steamed up and I couldn’t see.

“I’m going to get myself some contacts.”

“You look nice in your glasses.”

“The other day you were suggesting I have surgery.”

“I never said that.”

“Anyway, I don’t need your advice.”

My mother grimaced. She passed me an octopus to purée. I cut off the tentacles and dug my hand inside the head to pull out the ink sac. Beef and raw fish smells were wafting together, heavy and pungent. I pictured Kerrand at his desk. Lips pursed, hand drifting through the air before coming to land at exactly the right spot on the paper. I always had the finished dish in mind when I cooked. Appearance, taste, nutritional balance. When he drew, he gave the impression of thinking only of the movements he made with his wrist and hand, that was how the image seemed to take life, with no prior conception.