Soup

She asks which soup I’d like.
Decisions have been made faster.
When to ask her on a date,
when to plant a kiss,
when to ask if she’d like to live
in a flat together, to share a sofa,
a television, a bed every night.

Each thought required no thinking.

It’s the way she reads them.
The soft syllables,
a hunger in her voice.
I can’t decide.
Oxtail. Cream of mushroom.
Mulligatawny.

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