By Per Olvmyr
Staring into the tomato soup, I stirred a few times more. But under the red surface there was nothing but the same soup.
I dug up some of it with the spoon, tilted and poured it back into the bowl.
The soup trembled.
I dug once again, but this time brought it to my mouth.
Something was strange with the surface. So red. And I called for the waiter.
But the tomato soup took over. Spoke with my voice. And there was no way to stop it.
A little more soup, please.
The tomato soup’s voice was darker, fuller. But almost exactly like mine.
If I counted it correctly, I was on my third bowl, going for the fourth.
This evening is going to be long, I thought, looking down into the bowl, dipping my spoon into the surface once more. It was at least eight meters deep.
I couldn’t see any end of it.
Per Olvmyr lives in Malmö, Sweden, and has been published by Poetry Wales, Bombay Literary Magazine, Gone Lawn, Glänta, Takahē, Baltimore Review and other magazines. His work was nominated for best small fiction and best of the net. He can often be found in grocery stores engaged in long conversations with jellied pigs feet.
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