It was in the middle of a heavy shower that I met Miss Herring. I do not know exactly if it was a mister, or a miss, or a missis to be fair, but I am calling it Miss Herring just for convenience and solely at my discretion. For the record, I would like to leave a note here that Miss Herring could very well have been a Herring-san or a Frau Herring, and there was no way that Miss Herring could have actually had a family name called Herring.
Then why call it, or why call her, Miss Herring? I was walking in a small park in Seokchon-dong when I met her. There were ancient tombs from Hanseong Baekjae in the park, but the park itself was never a tourist destination. Most people who showed up at the park were people living close to it, and they regarded the tombs merely as nice heaps of dirt and stones to stroll around. It was a place where people walked their dogs to let them pee anywhere they liked, kids ran around, and teenagers fooled around. Miss Herring, however, stood out when I noticed her, as she was not a local.
It was in the middle of the rainy season in Korea, and thus one of the few occasions where the park was empty and quiet. In the middle of the night, I walked to the park with my sneakers soaked, thinking that I would be alone. No peeing dogs, and no teenagers who make out and smoke and then smoke and make out. The heavier the rain, the better. I was wrong though, as I ran into Miss Herring.
Although it was quite dark in the park at 2 AM, I could notice Miss Herring from far away since I saw her running down one of the tombs. At most times, I avoid such weirdos, but this time I wanted to strike up a conversation.
My sudden motivation was in that Miss Herring, was a herring. A Herring in a stunning red fur coat a set of matching red Jimmy Choos, to be precise.
“How interesting to see you out here, Miss Herring!” I shouted out.
“Oh, thank you,” answered Miss Herring, with a polite bow. Raindrops were dripping out of her gills.
“It’s wet enough for you to take a walk out here?”
“It is true, but does it matter?”
Now I was feeling uneasy. I could smell my body odor, the smell of my sweat mixed with the cold rainwater. Even though it was getting chilly, I had begun to sweat.
“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? You need water to breathe, Miss Herring!”
“Well, you do have some keen eyes to notice that I am a herring. I appreciate that, but it still doesn’t matter.”
I pondered for a moment. Maybe, Miss Herring felt offended that I had presumed her to be a miss, judging by her, or its taste in fashion.
“Madame, or, Sir, if I have ever―”
I could not finish the sentence. Miss Herring jumped at me and covered my mouth with the fin.
“Good sir, I am afraid our jolly conversation shall end here.”
Miss Herring began to swipe the tear off my eyelids. I wanted to hide it in the rain, but she had too keen eyes. I could no longer hold it. I shouted from the sudden yearning for Miss Herring, and the grief to be expected from our goodbye.
“Why? Miss Herring, Why! Why do you say so? Why do we have to part our ways? Why does the story have to end so soon? Our story! Why?”
Miss Herring didn’t answer for a moment. She sighed, and took out a Marlboro. She managed to light it with a surprising ease.
“I can’t help. The reason is that,” murmured Miss Herring, “I am a red herring.”