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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 111 | volume  | January, 2017



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                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 111January, 2017
Prose

Soup

/7
p. 1
Rumena Bužarovska

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Soup

Translated by Paul Filev
      
    I get up in the morning and stare at the coffee pot in which he boiled water. Next to the jar with brown sugar, his box of green tea. I open the box and see that there are only three tea bags left. I’ll finish them, I think to myself. After that, I don’t know. I don’t know whether I’ll throw the box out or leave it there, because it’s his box of green tea.
      
     The tea has a bitter taste and I don’t like it. I know that you’re meant to drink it without sugar, the way he drank it. If things were okay, I’d add sugar. No, I’d drink coffee, the way I’ve done every morning so far. But now I have to finish his tea. It’s bitter and tasteless. For me right now, nothing is meant to taste good. Hot and bitter, the tea suits me.
     Around midday, my friend Maria drops round. I get up to open the door for her, and when we come back into the living room, she always sits in my place. She never wonders to herself if maybe I had been sitting there. She never feels the warm seat, never asks herself, ‘Hang on a moment, was my friend sitting here, have I sat in her spot?’ That’s Maria. She never wonders about anything. She’s come wearing a black mini skirt, sheer black tights, heeled boots, jacket, red blouse, red nails, lipstick, mascara, eyeliner, glitter eyeshadow, and loud earrings that sparkle and dangle back and forth with every movement of her head. She’s been to the hairdresser’s. She’s had a manicure. She smells of some godawful perfume, intense and bitter, which makes me want to vomit. But then I should feel like throwing up, so I sit closer to her.
      
     ‘I brought you some soup,’ says Maria.
     ‘I’m not sick that you needed to bring me soup,’ I reply. I know that I’m being rude, but then it’s my husband who’s just died.
     ‘I made it for you today. You need to eat more often. You’ll get sick.’
      
     I remain silent. She didn’t need to get all dressed up just to come over. I light a cigarette.
     ‘You should air out the place a bit,’ she says to me, as if it’s her own flat. ‘It smells strange in here.’
     ‘You smell






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