Midnight Soup

It was a cold winter night. Snow was falling from the sky, and it was windy enough that it would hit you straight in the face. Luckily, I was not out there, I was just home, watching out the window as I waited for my soup from yesterday to come to a boil. It wasn’t much, but it was dinner—however late it was.

Christmas was fast approaching. As a kid I would’ve been excited beyond reason, but now I could not muster such feelings—this was the first one I would be spending alone, all on my own. It was dreadful to imagine all my neighbours with their families, having lavish dinners, drinking and laughing and sharing presents. Meanwhile I would probably just order KFC to break the monotony of this dull life of mine, which I would then eat, alone, on this very table. On the bright side, I am not the sorry loser who has to work on Christmas and deliver my food, at least I have that going for myself. Not that I have a job anyways.

I snapped back to the present upon hearing my doorbell ring. I looked at the clock on my microwave, way past midnight—I never had visitors, even less so at such an ungodly hour. Still, I went to answer the door. Behind, in the pitch-black stairwell, stood a dark figure, leaking water all over the floor. One might’ve mistaken it for a swamp monster straight from a horror novel, but even in the dark I instantly recognised a familiar face—it was my best friend, Connor.

“I have two questions. One: what the fuck are you doing here. Two: what the fuck are you doing here at this time” I asked.

“Hello to you too” he laughed, “I lost my keys so I couldn’t get home, figured I would be welcome here.”

“I mean, sure, you are always welcome and all, but you mean to tell me you walked all the way from your place to here, out in that frozen hellscape, in the middle of the night?”

“Yup, quite the Sherlock you are mon ami.”

“Oh, thank you my dear Watson, please come in, may I offer thee some tea perchance?” I joked with a terrible British accent and signalled him in.

He stepped into my crammed apartment. He was pale and soaked, now leaking water on my carpet. I look around the place—my bed was unmade, there were scrambled books and notes everywhere, two thrash bags were by the door waiting to be taken outside, and a layer of dust covered every surface. I was red out of shame; I hadn’t registered what a mess the place was until now.

“Sorry for the mess, I’ve been meaning to clean,” I said, “would you like a change of clothes? Maybe something warm to drink? You look a bit cold.”

“Please and thank you!” Connor acclaimed, and started to struggle out of the wet clothes, tossing them in a neat pile on the shower floor before walking deeper into the apartment. “Not one for the festivities, eh?” Connor noted, “Not even a tree, yet alone decorations. Shame, shame on you Matthew!”

He insisted on calling me Matthew, even my parents called me Matt. I didn’t really mind it, but it was still kind of peculiar.

“Didn’t feel like celebrating this year, not really in the festive spirit.” I responded while digging my closets in search of clothes for him.

“Why not? Christmas is amazing!”

“Really no reason to, being alone and all.”

“Alone? How come.”

“Had a little falling out with the folks so I am not welcome there anymore.”

“Shit dude, that blows. You know, you could always join my family for the holidays, I am sure mom and pops wouldn’t mind.”

I managed to find some clothes. “Here’re those clothes I promised, let me now go fix you that drink.” I said and walked into the kitchen.

Instinctively I went to see if I could make him a hot chocolate, that would surely warm him up; I grabbed the milk from the fridge and tried to smell if it had gone bad—alas, it had. Still, I figured I could do it in water instead, so I put a pot of water on the stove.

In the other room Connor was changing his clothes. I stole a glance of his shirtless body; he was fit, in good shape. He certainly had a body worth admiring, no gym-freak but it was evident that he took care of himself—something I couldn’t say for my plump self, I barely ventured outside these walls.

The water came to a boil and I prepared a cup of hot chocolate: a mugful of hot water and three, no, five spoons of cocoa powder. It would probably be better with a milk base, but not much I could do to remedy that—beggars can’t be choosers.

“Your drink is ready,” I called, “might want to drink it here in the kitchen, it’s a bit tidier than that side.”

“Swell, thanks.” He walked into the kitchen, my clothes looked rather baggy on him, there might’ve been a couple sizes between us. “Having a late-night dinner, eh?” He said, pointing at the pot of soup I had forgotten about.

“Oh, right!” I rushed to attend to it: luckily it was still fine, “Want some?”

“Sure, I could eat.”

I grab two bowls and pour some soup in both before bringing them over to the table, then grabbed a couple spoons. My dining table wasn’t large by any metrics, but it could comfortably accommodate two people.

“Thanks.”

We ate our soup in silence, and about every three spoons Connor would take a sip of his hot chocolate. What a cursed combination of foods that was, still, it was nowhere closed to the culinary crimes against humanity this apartment had seen.

“Feeling any warmer?” I asked, noting that colour had started to return to his face.

“Much. Like night and day.” He responded. “Now, about those Christmas plans…”

“I don’t know—I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You don’t have to come, but know that you would not be a burden. You are family too.”

I smiled, “Thanks, I really appreciate it. I’ll have to sit on it.”

“Well, you do have like a week or so to decide. Mom’ll probably want to know asap, but take your time.”

“Aight.”

“Now, what is this falling out with your folks?”

“Ah, it’s nothing, just a stupid argument.”

“It’s not nothing if they disinvited you from Christmas, not very Christian of them, is it?”

“No, really, it’s nothing. I just said the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’ll work itself out with time.” It was the understatement of the year, a blatant lie, but I didn’t want to worry him. I didn’t need his sympathy, what good would it do.

“I’ll not push it further; I’ll take your word for it. But know that I am here for you, if you need to talk or something.”

“Isn’t it me who is here for you right now? You are in my apartment and all, were waiting by my door like a wet stray.”

“Both can be equally correct.” He smiled.

I look at the time. “It’s getting late, we should probably start dozing.”

“You may be right. Where’ll I sleep? Next to you?”

“That is a good question.” I said, visibly distraught by that last comment. Looking at my bed I realised the sheets hadn’t been changed for longer than I cared to admit. “I should have a sleeping pad and bag somewhere, those ought to do it.”

“Sweet! You look for those and I’ll start looking for the floor from under here.” He said, pointing at the pile of junk on the floor.

He was joking, but had no idea how embarrassing the state of my apartment was to me. I tried to express amusement, probably in vain, and went on to search for wherever I had tucked my camping gear. I wasn’t sure when I had last been out camping, it had probably been years at this point. I checked from under the bed, and from my closets, before eventually finding them from under some clothes I had been meaning to wash.

“Found them.” I said, meanwhile Connor had dug himself a foxhole in the battleground that was my apartment.

“Sweet, thanks.” He responded, taking them off my hands and setting them up in the clearing.

“Let’s sleep then.”

Connor took off his shirt and settled into the sleeping bag. I had again stolen a glance of him, this time from the front. He had fairly well-defined abdominal muscles, like some Instagram thirst-trap. I remembered how he had played football when he was younger, even taught me to play—well, to kick a ball properly at least. I grew to quite like playing the sport, even if that too has been on hiatus for a couple years.

“If you’re going to stare, at least take me out for drinks first.” He teased.

“Sorry, I was zoning out!” I apologised, realising I was probably staring deep into his soul.

“Uh-huh, must be real tired then.”

I rushed to turn off the lights and then tucked myself into bed. “Good night then.” I said, awkwardly.

“Nighty night.” He responded, in good spirits.

“I’m sorry for staring.”

“It’s okay.”