The man in the corner booth was crying into his tomato soup.

I was far too close to him to be able to conceivably ignore him, and far too small and uncertain of myself to even think of speaking to him. I sat at the next table over and untangled myself from my new green scarf, listening to his breathless noises with a sort of guilty helplessness. He bent his head down and brought it to rest on his arms, spoon shivering in his hand. I ordered a raspberry lemonade… I think. I didn’t see who took my order, in fact. My eyes were fixed on the poor sobbing man in the corner.

I began to tell myself that if nobody else came to him and if he continued to cry for another five minutes, I would venture over and ask him if he was alright. A silly question, really, considering that he was obviously NOT alright, but to ask ‘what’s the matter?’ could be considered a nosy question. To ask him if he was alright would give him the option of a (somewhat) dignified refusal of help. He looked like the sort of man who valued his dignity. An impeccably pressed business suit was his dress of choice, with an impressive red tie that shouted ‘authority’. His briefcase sat in the opposite chair, looking bloated with forms and figures too complicated for mortal brains, and sealed with a golden lock. Three identical pens lined his breast pocket. As a matter of fact, if you ignored the fact that he was sobbing into a soup bowl, he looked to be a very composed figure.

Five and a half minutes passed and the man continued to cry. The waitress delivered my lemonade, and I’m not sure what else she said, but I got the vague feeling of somebody making friendly conversation with me. I suppose I didn’t notice. At any rate she must have understood that I was going to need a few more minutes. She gave them to me.

At length I shook myself and shuffled to the edge of the booth, stomach one big squirming mess, and stood up. He ignored me. I realized that he still managed to eat while crying. His bowl was nearly empty. On the table lay a mess of crackers.

“Excuse me,” said I, very softly, “Are you alright, sir?”

I touched his arm. His head jolted up so fast I nearly squealed in surprise. His face was drawn with heavy responsibility and almost frightened. He took me in with a desperate sweep of his eyes and grabbed my arm.

“Hey!”

He pulled me into the chair on the other side of the table, almost crushing his briefcase.

“Hey, taste this!”

“I say!” He cleaned off the spoon with his handkerchief and handed it to me. Tentatively, but afraid to be rude, I dipped it into the soup. The man’s watery eyes bored into me as I tasted the soup.

“…Oh my.”

“Ex-actly.”

“Everything alright here, folks?”

The waitress, sunny in nearly every sense of the word, smiled into our gaping faces and nodded wisely.

“You’ve discovered the tomato soup.” She said.

“My mother,” howled the businessman, “Made this tomato soup! Not soup like it… this is the soup! How did you know? It’s a secret recipe! Why, I don’t think anyone could have guessed…”

The waitress gave an evil grin.

“Funny, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t had this since I was seventeen years old… Mom was too sick to make it after that…”

“We sure do our best to get that home cooked feel to our food…”

The businessman began to cry again.

“It’s been years… forty years… and now here’s mom’s soup!”

I patted him on the shoulder, as did the waitress, and we left him to his memories and his soup.

I sat back at my table, smiling faintly, and picked up the green and gold menu with lovely, sophisticated script.

There was no tomato soup on the menu.

The waitress, who had followed me to my table, now stood at my elbow with her pen and oddly bright countenance. Her hair was the color of butter. Naturally so. How unfair.

“Er… I don’t see the tomato soup…” I said.

The waitress gave a shockingly evil grin. (I saw her nameplate now. Sunny. Of course.)

“He ordered the tuna sandwich and Caesar salad, actually. Guess we just made a mistake.”

I peered curiously at her. That grin was far too bright to think she’d made an honest mistake. I cocked my head at her and she leaned her elbow on the table.

“He needed that soup today.” She said, “We could see it in the way he just slumped right into his seat and didn’t even look up when he ordered. He didn’t sound one bit excited about his choice, either. Folks ought to be excited when they come to eat, otherwise they should eat somewhere else, don’t you think? Come to think of it, our tuna sandwiches ARE quite exciting… but we figured he needed some tomato soup today. And by golly, we were right!”

I teetered on that peculiar little line between amusement and bewilderment, and perhaps fell both ways at once.

“Now,” said Sunny, “You decide what you’d like to eat yet, or do you need another minute?”

“Er… well, what do you recommend? I mean, I’m new to the neighborhood and I don’t know what’s good…”

She nodded.

“I just got here too. I only just started here Monday, but mark my words: this is the place to eat! Only other decent joint is Mr. Woon’s Chinese buffet, and they’re closed this week because the roof caved in on account of Mr. Woon’s mother, who lives above the store, got a leak in her kitchen sink and it weakened the floor and goosh!” She made a very expressive motion with her pen and her order pad. “But yeah, great old town, is Wickfurrow. I mean, yeah, the place has one stoplight and darned if you can find any modern music here, but the folks are great. I’ve already been invited to three homes for dinner sometime this week, just to welcome me to the neighborhood. Great folks here. My new boss especially, whoo! What a guy! NO taste in music, of course, but other than that… Anyway, what do you feel like?”

“… Perhaps you could tell me something nice and light-ish? The kind of meal that one would eat when one is… well… small and entirely lost, and looking for a way to cheer up?”

She nodded smartly and turned away. I called after her.

“Only…I’d rather not eat something that’s going to make me cry.”