soup

She made chili for dinner. The girls wouldn’t eat it. She knew she would have to make them quesadillas. If she never saw another quesadilla again, it would be too soon. When he came home from his hard day at work, he leaned into the chili pot, which was still sitting on the stove. He began to rustle around in the cabinets. What are you looking for, she asked.

Tomato paste, he said.

What do you need tomato paste for, she asked.

To rub on my nipples, he said.

A few days ago, he had been sick. She had driven him to the clinic, filled out forms, picked up meds. He hadn’t been able to eat anything. He had asked for Lemon Lime Gatorade, and she had brought back Lemon Lime Powerade. She had been focused on the Lemon Lime, not the Gator. He had noticed the lack of Gator not the bounty of Lemon Lime. The next day, she had bought some pastries for the family and offered him one. He had laughed, incredulously. No thanks, he said shaking his head. I can’t eat that.

He was sleeping at his office now. She never knew if he would eat with her and the girls, but she still thought about his meals. She wondered what he ate while he was sleeping at the office. The girls told her that he had gotten a breakfast burrito and she knew that he had gone to the place where they had used to go together - before the girls.

I made you cauliflower leek soup and got a baguette, you know, because I thought your throat was still sore, she said to him over the phone. The girls miss you. Can you come home tonight?

Maybe. I don’t know. It’s uncomfortable for me there, he said.

Yes. It is uncomfortable, she said.

Well, there is the soup, she said.

Yeah, thanks. I’ll take care of myself, he said.

Although she is unclear about exactly what has happened between them, she understands it’s on her – something about her absence of responsiveness or abrupt responsiveness or lackluster responsiveness. In other words, if she were different things would be better. When he calls her name, she says out loud, or in her head, it’s hard to say which, What have I done now?

The soup sits in the fridge. Every time she opens it, the soup sits there. It’s so satisfied! She wants to be like that soup, waiting confidently for someone to be so hungry that they overlook the way she falls short. They smile and say, oh what the hell, and pull her out. They nuke a bowl of her and gently dip the underside of a spoon into her heart and bring her to their lips.

Because she is no idiot, and knows what all this means, she decides she will no longer be making soup.