The first time Simon Belgemuth’s tongue crawled away was after the balsamic escargot. As a taxi carried him home from éclatement on 23rd, Belgemuth jotted on his notepad: “Exquisite presentation making transcendent use of whitespace,” “Temperate, slick mouthfeel,” and so forth. Abruptly he felt the warm, moist traction of taste buds on his neck. 

He stuffed the notepad in his breast pocket and closed a hand around his tongue. The driver delivered him to his building, where he managed to pay without speaking. Squinting at his damp fist, the driver sped away with some urgency.

Strange looks don’t much bother Belgemuth. He has never found other people particularly stimulating. Flavor is his religion—his best friend in life. 

Inside the apartment, there appeared only one course of action: putting his tongue back. He would’ve expected it to feel native to his mouth, but the angle was wrong, and its mouthfeel struck him as coarse, stiff. He gagged his tongue out into his hand. 

Lacking alternatives, he tried again. This time, the tongue took root. 

The second time Simon Belgemuth’s tongue crawled away was after the cinnamon balsamic escargot. This was his second visit to éclatement, several months later, to review their fall menu for Food. Seated beside Evangelina Craft at the critics table, he lifted a second bite to his mouth and felt his tongue dash for open air. He snapped his jaws shut and walked briskly to the restroom. His tongue slapped against his cheeks, battling to break free. 

Hiding in a stall, he tried to line it up and will the damned thing to take root once more. The tongue refused. He knew he couldn’t linger; his mid-appetizer dash for the restroom may have already ended any hope of future tastings alongside Evangelina Craft. Still the tongue writhed and flopped. 

I will call the police, he thought. He began to dial 911 but soon realized he had no means to tell them what troubled him. 

Instead, he opened a note on his phone and typed, “Why are you doing this to me?”

He and his tongue came to a silent agreement. He held its base between his fingers, and it used its tip to tap the screen. “No more.”

“No more balsamic escargot?”

The tongue navigated to the thumbs-up emoji. 

That would be no great loss. Although he appreciated complexity of flavor, Belgemuth found most flavors of balsamic escargot … unpleasant. Once his tongue had re-rooted, he walked back to the critics table, gathered his belongings, issued several professional apologies to Evangelina Craft, and left. 

After the third time Simon Belgemuth’s tongue crawled away, he had it insured. The escape itself was nothing dramatic, so far as Belgemuth could tell. It simply snuck out while he slept. He only knew because he awoke to the faint flavor of sand.

The insurance representatives seemed more than happy to insure his tongue. They couldn’t argue with the premise that it was an essential tool of his profession. Coverage proved expensive, but should he ever lose his tongue or his sense of flavor, he would receive over 29,000 dollars in reimbursement. 

The fourth time Simon Belgemuth’s tongue crawled away was after he had it insured. He arrived home from the insurance office, grinned, and told his tongue, “You have no more power over m—”

On the vowel, his tongue sprang from his mouth. It landed on the linoleum with a salivated slap, scurried up the kitchen wall, tumbled out a window, and sprinted for the street. (Practice really had improved its independent motion.) 

Belgemuth put on his informal loafers, ran to the door, and watched his tongue hop in a car with Dottie from upstairs. She merged into traffic, crawling toward the suburbs. Surely, a tongue cannot slip into a vehicle unnoticed. Belgemuth felt certain his neighbor and his tongue were running away together. 

On foot, he chased Dottie’s car around one bend and another, huffing and puffing, puffing and huffing, huffing and huffing and huffing. Shoving through the hotdog stand line, he was met with battalions of middle fingers. 

Traffic slowed to a honking stop just before the outbound bridge. Belgemuth leaned and angled himself to look between all the other vehicles at Dottie’s. 

Did his tongue miss him yet? 

He realized the gusting icy rain probably wasn’t paying his hair any flatteries. He still couldn’t spot the tongue, but now Dottie was waving. I’ll pretend to be someone other than Simon Belgemuth, thought Simon Belgemuth as his neighbor’s smile became a glare. The tongue continued to hide. He slumped back home and waited inside. 

Hours passed, but Belgemuth’s tongue kept its distance. He paced his kitchen. He stood by the window for a time, ducking out of sight when Dottie pulled in. Still the tongue did not return. Was it worming along the interstate? Savoring butter-basted wagyu? Could it be winding around some other tongue?

Late in the night, hoping for distraction, he began drafting his review of a yellow curry that truly was delicious. The sentences wouldn’t click. 

He dozed off at three or four a.m. in the chair beside his front door. More than once, he woke himself snoring. His voice had become a stranger. 

*

At sunrise, Simon Belgemuth awoke with his tongue in his mouth. He wiggled it a little, grinned, and got up to savor his morning coffee. 

The tongue has not crawled away a fifth time. Now, when it needs something, or requests something, he simply listens and obeys. 

In the past, Simon sometimes asked himself where the self lies. He wondered if being resides in the brain or the heart, and whether there could be such a thing as a soul. Now, he understands that his truest self resides in his tongue. He knows, too, that he must behave. If his tongue ever decides to leave him permanently—as it often threatens to do—any Simon Belgemuth that is left behind won’t be Simon Belgemuth at all. 

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Isaac Fox (he/him) is a writer, dabbling musician, and enjoyer of strange fish from Pennsylvania. His work has previously appeared in MoonPark Review, Tiny Molecules, and A Velvet Giant.