for dinner in her studio
apartment
on the twelfth floor.
there were lighted candles
on her card
table.
the music on low.
she had her hair
down,
lipstick on.
the meal
started with soup.
cold soup.
i took a sip then
gently told
her that it was cold,
as if she didn't know.
she looked
at me and laughed
and said
it's supposed to be that way.
i said.
oh.
she said it's called
Gazpacho.
years later i ran into her
after she came back
from Portugal,
and she told
me that
she wished we had
made love
that night,
but the soup changed
everything.
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