Damp Soup

We sit, side by side on pale wooden benches facing a window. Soft rain is pouring down the glass, loosening grey dust and forming it into ugly streaks. My eye fixes on a grey droplet and I watch as it falls slowly, blown by a sporadic wind, to the ground. You have your arm around me, and the dampness from your coat is seeping into my jumper. I ask you to take it off. You acquiesce. A waiter brings two steaming bowls of ramen noodles to the table, and we start to eat. You begin with the soup, I with the noodles. You would never agree with me on that one.

We’re silent, damp and silent. I think of my mother, how she dislikes noodles, forcing us to cook rice for her in a separate pan. I’m alone with my thoughts when you begin to speak. I don’t catch the first few words, so faint is your voice through the clatter of the noodle shop. Turning to face you I see you are agitated. Your cheeks are red and your won’t make eye contact. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘Nothing, don’t worry. I mean, it’s nothing major, but I’ve decided to take the scholarship. I know we’d agreed but I can’t deny what a good opportunity it is for me. I might never be able to do this again in my whole life…’ You trail off. I look down into my bowl and the greasy film on top of the soup turns my stomach. Something in your tone tells me that this is non-negotiable, your mind is made up. I pick up my bag from under the table, hurriedly throw my coat on my shoulder and leave. Stepping out onto the street I walk decisively without destination, aiming to lose myself in the mess of umbrellas and rain coats. I walk four blocks before I allow myself to cry. In a doorway, without restraint, the tears fall, soft rain.