HOLLY OSBORNE-JONES

Inanimate Attraction

THE air was cold in your house. Not cool nor chilly, cold. Earlier that morning you’d woken up shivering, your blankets doing nothing to keep out the icy breeze drifting in from the cracks in the floor. You later found out, upon inspection, that your boiler was broken, and no matter how many times you beat it violently with a spanner it still wouldn’t appear to work.

So here you sat, hunched over your kitchen table with five thick blankets thrown over your shoulders. You gazed down into the small bowl of soup you’d made, a vague haze of steam rising from its surface into the air. It looked so tantalising there and then, a perfect little orb of warmth and colour compared to the greys and blues surrounding it. Small chunks of carrot and chicken bobbed around in the hot liquid, like little islands almost consumed by the ocean. It was beautiful, in its own uncanny, soupy way.

With a jolt, you broke out of your daydreaming. You blinked, looking around and then back down to the soup. ‘Am I going insane?’ you silently asked yourself, reaching one shaking hand to rub your eyes. ‘Daydreaming about soup. God, is this what the cold can do to a person?’ you thought glumly, shaking your head as you lazily reached for your spoon. With a heavy sigh, you dipped the metal into the soup, collecting little more than a tablespoon of pale broth on it before bringing it up to your mouth.

As you swallowed that simple spoonful, you could feel something. The warmth of the soup spread from your throat all the way to your stomach, but didn’t stop there. In your entire body, from your fingers, legs, even your heart, you could feel a soft warmth. It made you smile. It made your brain rush with endorphins as you smiled so brightly at the feeling.

Looking back down at the soup, your smile grew softer. The feeling it’d given you was so gentle, almost loving in the way it made you feel protected, safe. ‘Loving . . .’ you thought, delicately dipping the spoon back into the soup and slowly stirring the liquid, resting your cheek on your other hand as you mused. ‘It’s just a bowl of soup . . . but . . . the way it looks . . . the way it looks up at me . . .’ You paused. ‘Has any human ever made me feel this way before? An ex, a family member, anyone? It feels so new to me. But at the same time, it feels good. It feels like . . . love? Is that it?’

“Love?”

The word slipped from your lips, quietly announcing itself for all nearby to hear.

“Soup . . . do you love me?” you whispered down to the warm liquid, a light flush of pink settling on your cheeks. The meal only rippled in response, small waves of soup echoing out from the centre of the bowl. The ripples curved as they bobbed outwards, dipping in at one point more and more until a shape formed in the soup.