The soup was more broth than anything else, and it rippled on his shaky spoon as he raised it to his mouth. By the time it reached the gaping hole, most of the contents had sloshed off so that numerous puddles of seasoned water collected on the table between points A and B. With each bite, though, he seemed surprised at the loss along the way. Not necessarily disgusted, just taken aback as if he didn't expect it. One would assume that after... nevermind.
He seemed surprised, yes, and then he would shrug and enjoy the remaining bite anyway. No one at fault. No one to blame. Just another spoon of soup. He would also recall something of old with each bite, and a single "humph" sort of chortle would rise from somewhere behind his chin. Eventually I asked about it, what he was fondly reminded of.
"My wife," he said proudly between swallows. She was an amazing cook, as I recalled.
"Did she used to make this for you?" I asked, and he burst into uncontrolled laughter.
"No, boy!" he managed between gasps of air. "She hated it, the smell, taste, color... all, all of it! I remember her eyes rolling as she leave the house because of this when I make it. So charming she was in those moments."
They loved each other and worked through every problem together. Like one unit, they depended on each other totally. When he returned from war, when she lost her job, when my uncle committed suicide, when my sister grew ill, when I was born with complication. They were the solid rock that stayed strong and held onto one another. And oh how they romanced one another through the years! But this... a soup. He would insist on it and she would leave the house to escape it. And even this, seven years after her passing, made him joyous at a thought of her. This is love.
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