by
Bobby Derie
It emerged from the depths, smooth as an egg, pale lavender shading to dun, dripping and draped with bits of soggy weed.
"Look, it's nothing magical. It's a testicle." Siri held the organ on her spoon, above the level of the soup.
"It's a magical testicle." The waiter insisted. "You did order the magic soup. Did you want to send it back?"
"No." Siri said, then more firmly. "No. My therapist is going to have a field day with this anyway. She'll cream at anything this Freudian."
The waiter smiled. "Enjoy the soup. Let me know if you need anything else."
Siri stared at her spoon, then sighed. Life had not prepared her for this moment, and she wasn't sure where to start - but there was one universal gesture that might make this better. With her free hand, she reached for the salt shaker.
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