Soup is Good Food

 The house smelled like wet cigarette butts.

Pacing around my apartment. It was dark outside and I was reminded of forcing Donald to eat cigarette butts out of a cup of brown water twenty years ago. He did. I did. We were more than vaguely drunk.

Walked into my kitchen and the plastic handle of the teapot was on fire.

Bare palm knocked the fucking thing onto the floor, crashing and rolling, spinning and spilling boiling water everywhere and I turned off the burner. 

"Fuck!" Wiped my burnt hand against my leg. Looked around for a towel and saw nothing.

"Fuck!" Hurt like hell.

Forgot why I was even boiling water. Ran my hand under the tap. Lukewarm water and then cold. The handle was still burning. Poured a cup of water, knelt beside it and slowly poured the water over it until the flames were out. Smelled awful. Like wet cigarette butts.

I had been considering crime. I had been considering robbing banks. They say you get away with your first one most of the time if you can keep your mouth shut. I could. All I needed was a couple grand. Buy myself more time. Find myself driving around town looking at bank branches. Picturing my hands as I slide the note across the counter. The look in their eyes. The weight of the silence. The pounding of my heart and the rent paid in full.

My mother had called the night before and I had joked about it. Crime. I wondered if I was testing the waters. If I would actually consider it seriously. 

Depends on how desperate I get, I thought.

I had been applying for work for a few months. No dice. 

...how desperate I get.

My hand still stung and I picked the kettle up off the floor now that some time had passed. I wasn't going to rob any fucking banks. My heart would stop before I even got to the counter. But, just like everything else, it was a nice fantasy. 

Set the kettle back on the stove. 

A pain in my stomach. 

Remembered that I had been planning to make a Cup of Soup.