#70

She asked for soup. The waiter told her they had chicken and tomato. She chose the chicken. The waiter came back and said he was sorry, they only had tomato left. She asked if it was creamy. The waiter said not really. But it was clear to her that he was lying.

Or rather not lying, but not telling the whole truth.

She did not want creamy. She wanted something chunky, something with vegetables one could see, something broth based. So she stared at him, refusing to order anything else until he told her what he really knew.

What he really knew, it turned out, was nothing.

He hadn’t tried the soup himself.

He didn’t like soup, especially not on a hot August afternoon. But he was caught.

“Would you like to try some first to see if you like it?” He asked.

Trying just a bit hadn’t occurred to her. Deciding what was true and what wasn’t for herself, using her own judgement, hadn’t occurred to her.

“Yes, please.”

The waiter brought her an espresso cup full of soup. A bit more than a mouthful. It was odd, she thought, to see soup in such a small cup. Yet it contained all the right things: tomatoes, celery, carrot, onion. She took it in slowly, letting each ingredient take pause on her tongue.

The waiter returned and asked if she liked it.

She said it was perfect.

He asked if she would like a bowl.

She said no, this was all I really needed.