Soup Across Two Time Zones

Xia lives in a small flat in the north. Adrian lives in a big city very far away. When she eats breakfast, he eats dinner. When he goes to bed, she starts work.

They talk on the phone every Sunday. Xia puts the phone on the kitchen table. Adrian puts his on a shelf. They see each other on small screens.

Tonight the call is not the same. Xia has a cold. Her nose is red, and her voice is low.

"You look tired," says Adrian.

"I am tired," says Xia. "I want soup. But I have no one to make it."

"You can make it," he says.

"I do not want to. I want someone else to make it for me."

Adrian is quiet. He thinks. Then he smiles. "Wait," he says. "I have an idea."

He goes to his kitchen. The phone shakes in his hand. Xia sees a window and a pan. She sees a loaf of bread.

"What is the plan?" she asks.

"I make soup," says Adrian. "You make soup too. We cook it together."

"We are very far apart."

"Yes, but the soup is the same," he says. "Do you have an onion?"

Xia looks in the cupboard. She finds one onion and two carrots. She finds a bag of rice. "Yes," she says.

"Good. Cut the onion."

Xia leans the phone against a milk bottle. She takes a knife. Adrian takes a knife too. They cut the onions at the same time.

"My eyes hurt," says Xia.

"Mine too," says Adrian. "This is the sad part of love."

She stops. He goes red. "I mean, the sad part of soup," he says.

Xia laughs so hard that she coughs. Adrian laughs too. For a minute, nobody can speak.

They put the onions in the pans. They add a little oil. Then they add the carrots. Xia adds rice. Adrian adds a handful of beans. The smell rises in both kitchens, many hours apart.

"What is your smell?" Adrian asks.

"Onion and carrot. It is warm."

"Mine is warm too," he says. "I think the smell travels."

"That is not possible," says Xia.

"Maybe not," he says. "But I smell it."

The soup cooks for twenty minutes. They do not hang up. Xia drinks tea and watches him stir. Adrian tells her about his bad day at work. His boss lost a meeting room. It was a funny story, and she laughs again.

At last, Adrian says, "Taste it."

Xia takes a spoon. The soup is hot and plain and good. She says, "It is not bad."

"Mine is too salty," says Adrian. He takes a sip and makes a face.

"Then send me yours," Xia says. "I will eat it."

"It will be cold by then."

"I do not mind."

Adrian holds up his bowl to the screen. Xia holds up hers. They touch the screens with their bowls. It makes a small clink in two rooms.

"Same time next Sunday?" he says.

"Same time," she says. "You cook. I will bring the bread. Somehow."