18. The poet didn't know what to do first. Eat the soup? Read the walls? Ask her questions? It was a difficult choice. Her stomach settled the argument. She took a cautious spoonful of the hot soup. It was very good. Once she'd started, she couldn't stop -- she ate and ate soup, burning her mouth. The mathematician kept ladling more soup into her bowl. He watched her eat, smiling out of the corner of his mouth. The poet ate until the chill had left her bones, until she no longer minded the odd gusts of wind that shivered through the cracks. She ate until all the soup was gone.
Menu