The phone is ringing again; Anne stays seated in her folding chair on the balcony and takes a deeper drag from her Gitane. She hasn’t answered the phone over the past few days. The red message light blinks furiously at her but she knows all the messages are the same: “Anne, call us when she gets home”; “Hi, Anne and Mary. Just calling for an update. Call me when you get a chance”; “Anne, I’ve got some soup I’d like to bring over. Let me know when’s a good time.”
What is it with women and soup? she muses.
Yesterday, when someone brought over more soup, Anne not-very-discretely shoved the container to the back of the freezer with the other ones, where it would be found in a year, hoary and pallid. Mary was never the type to slurp soup from a mug: only a silver spoon and a soup plate set neatly on top of a dinner plate would do.
But Mary won’t be able to do that anymore. At least, not for a long time.