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It was a rather average Thursday night. The city slowed as parents cooked dinner for their families, late-shift employees got in their cars, and many were at rest to start the early morning the next day. Hence the average 20 year olds both hopping in a beat-down car, the ignition stuttering twice to get started. Neither of them batted an eye. They pulled out of the grocery store parking lot as indie alt rock blasted from a struggling radio.
Fuuta pressed the back of his head against the headrest. Age had stung his young face, forming dark splotchy circles and creased eye bags underneath his restless gaze. He propped a foot up on the dash as his arms hung to his sides. He wasn’t safe to drive in his condition, not that Kotoko was either. She hummed along to whatever song faintly scratched through the speakers in an attempt to keep herself alert.
“STOP!”
SCREECH.
They both jolt from the impact of slammed breaks in a car that clearly can’t handle that.
“What.”
“Do you not see the huge red sign? Stop?”
Kotoko blinks at the sign that stares right back at her. Awkwardly.
“...No. I didn’t.”
They both sit for a moment. It’s far too late for traffic, and it’d be unlikely for anyone to sit in wait behind them.
Fuuta examines Kotoko. Perhaps she looked worse than he did. Drug through five feet deep of coals and thrown into a mid-level clerk position at a grocery store. Maybe that’s what actually happened with all the unexplained cuts on her arms. They weren’t self-harm, he knew that much, so why…
“Hey.”
“Let me get us home.”
“No, just listen to me for a moment.”
Kotoko flicks a look back at him. It’s cold, but not malicious. She’s met with a sigh.
“We’re getting this weekend off. The first in… three months, you know? We should do something special.” The ginger flashes the most goofiest grin known to man.
Kotoko’s stare is blank. “Special?”
“I want to cook for us," Fuuta replies.
“You… Cooking for us.”
“Me. Cooking for us.”
Kotoko turns her gaze back to the dark road. She lets her foot off the brake and starts to move again.
“Okay. How about egg drop soup?”
“Mm, poor people’s delicacy,” he laughs. “I’m game. Do we have everything?”
“We do. …I’ve been thinking about making it myself.”
–
A pot boils on the stove of translucent yellow liquid, light, decadent, and dancing with common spices and herbs that these broke roommates “splurge” on. This was an average weekend meal. It was special, a bit more expensive than the typical ramen when you account for eggs and broth not 95% water content.
Perhaps, far more expensive than expected this time. Fuuta opened the crate of eggs, a brand he hadn’t seen before. Oh well. He wasn’t the one who bought them, so he trusted Kotoko’s expertise in saving money.
He slides out an egg and taps it until it cracks, smooth eggy liquid pooling into the bowl he set out.
“Uhhh. Hey Kotoko?”
The–far more tired at this point, with her responsibility on dinner relaxed for the night and embracing her primal desire to sleep–same aged woman tilted out of the bedroom.
“I think these eggs are rotten.”
What great news. Kotoko formally enters the room, staring over the bowl.
“How come?”
“The yolk is orange.”
“Mhm.”
“The yolks we get are normally… yellow?” Fuuta raises an eyebrow.
“I got free range,” Kotoko shrugs as she starts to walk off.
Fuuta grabs her arm by the sleeve of her hoodie. They lock eyes. An intense staring match.
“You.”
“Before you lecture me like a pissed off spouse, they were on sale, and weren’t but a dollar extra than the normal kind we buy.” She doesn’t blink. “Consider it a treat.”
“You’re sure they were just ‘a dollar extra’?”
“I triple checked the price, Fuu.”
Kotoko yanks her sleeve from him as she saunters back through the kitchen. Fuuta continues to stand and stare, attempting to make her decision make sense in his head.
He turns around, grabs a whisk, and slowly stirs it around the bowl. The glistening orange swirls around the whitish exterior of the egg, becoming one, vibrant mixture of colour.
“‘One dollar extra’ my ass…” He grumbles as he sticks a spoon into the boiling chicken broth, stirring it fast enough to pour in the premium expensive egg. “This better taste like liquid gold then.”
He pours the two a bowl as Kotoko barely keeps her head up at the makeshift dining table, your standard cardboard box setup. He places them down and sits across. Hesitation stains his face.
Kotoko murmurs a “thanks” as she digs right in with a spoon, letting the decadent goodness teem over her taste buds.
Fuuta is not so eager. He whirls it around a little, the bright orange ribbons freaking him out.
“This soup may just convince me Heaven is real,” Kotoko says in a small breath between her next bite.
Fuuta bites his tongue as he drops his gaze. A silent prayer to thank God for what he has.
It’s moments like these that remind him how thankful he is to no longer exist in a living purgatory anymore. Even if he is rooming with the woman who stole his vision. And even if she insists on buying expensive eggs for a slightly better soup experience.
He finally sticks a spoon in, pressing the ribboned broth up to his lips as they passed over his tongue. Immediate satisfaction. He could taste the freshness, how flavourful it was compared to the artificial water and dry mix broth they’d regularly use, the slight creaminess of the egg.
“Damn, that’s good.”
“I told you,” Kotoko replies in a sing songy tone, taking another bite, then another right after.
The two spend a good ten minutes downing the soup, mixing in small and bigger bites until the both of them raise the bowl up to their mouths like rabid, starving dogs.
They sit back and sigh in the same manner one would after stuffing themself on a buffet. It was filling, they could admit. Perhaps the best soup they had enjoyed in their lives.
Kotoko closes her eyes. “Better than any restaurant.”
“Debatable,” Fuuta lifts from his chair, collecting his and Kotoko’s bowls. “But pretty good for egg drop soup.”