Tomato soup.

The suggestion was grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, which sounds very fine for a chilly fall day. He seemed enthusiastic about the idea. We bought the food, and headed back to the house. Before long, the soup was cooking and the sandwiches toasting and I nervously waited.

The tomato basil soup at the Patisserie is delicious. I covet it, its tangy scent reminding me of my love for red sauces and marinara and grilled tomatoes.

Our plates and bowls were dished up, beverages poured, and we sat across the table.

I said grace.

I held my breath.

Conversation commenced.

I crumbled some crackers and some potato chips into my tomato soup. I took a bite. I choked down another. In total, maybe, I downed almost an even ten.

I set my spoon down. I couldn’t take the lie. My 15 minutes were up.

“I have something to tell you,” I said, looking across the table. “I hope you won’t get angry but I have to tell you.”

He waited. With a reputation for throwing about all manner of frivolous and important conversation all within the same breath, he likely grew nervous, awaiting whatever it I was about to drop in his lap.

“I’ve never liked tomato soup. Never.”

The look of incredulousness passed quickly, replaced by a comical expression of believing disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me in the store?! We could have just as easily gotten chicken noodle soup.”

“Well, you seemed to want tomato soup and I like the tomato basil soup we make at work and I just thought that maybe my tastes had changed over time,” I paused, staring at the sodden red mass of crackers in the blue bowl. “They haven’t. I’m very sorry.”

He just laughed and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

I just don’t like tomato soup.