My bowl of chicken soup was sitting on the kitchen table. It had been quite a while since I nuked it and it was probably barely tepid at this point.
Nonetheless, I was disinclined to touch my soup. In fact, I didn’t want to go anywhere near it. I was standing just a little bit left of the bowl. I was still wrapped in a damp beach towel while my sandy, soggy bathing suit lay in a wet lump on the bathroom floor. I promised myself I’d go wash it out any minute.
The Cheshire Cat was back. His grin was hanging in the air in my kitchen. Any minute now his body would show up too.
He wanted my soup.