Fiction
Book soup
I wade through the sprawling labyrinth of bookshelves stacked high with glossy and matte covers.
Behind a counter a woman in an apron writes the daily specials in curly-cued chalk handwriting.
“Excuse me, what’s good here?” I say.
“Everything, but I’d recommend the book soup,” she says.
I laugh, and order a novella portion. I’m not very hungry.
“You’ll regret that.”
The soup arrives on a tray with a small teacup of oolong. An overwhelming aroma of card stock wafts up from the floating matzoh-ball sized wad of pages. I dip in my spoon to reveal a floating piece of reedy spine that I chew like soft bamboo shoot.
“How is your soup?”
“It’s delicious,” I say through a mouthful of leathery cover.
Too soon I finish and long for more.
My dutiful hostess returns to refill my teacup.
“Thank you,” I say.
She smiles at the empty soup bowl.
“Might I recommend the novel next time? It’s much more hearty.”