The soup sat between my clenched knees, and I could feel the warming glass bowl simmer into the outer layer of my skin. The soup was good, though. I don’t think I’ve ever had French onion soup. Well, I don’t know what French onion soup is, for that matter. For all I know this was just a soup with onions in it, and my brain concluded it was French. “Jeremy!” My mother yelled. “Why are you sitting at the Boca do Lobo, my dear? Surely you’ll spill your soup, and we wouldn’t want that! Please, place it on the table.” ‘The Boca of what’ was my initial thought. My second thought was why did my mother have white hair and visible crows feet from a yard away. My third thought was when has she ever made French onion soup. “Sorry,” I reply. I quickly stand, and the room feels a lot bigger than I remember. Or maybe I just felt really small. Loud music suddenly blasts from the record player in the corner of the room. It’s Cantaloupe Island by Herbie Hancock, I think. The sound waves feel palpable and alive. I never really liked jazz, and I don’t remember owning a record player. ‘What is going on’ my internal monologue mumbles. I quickly bend to place the bowl of soup on the table, and in doing so I realize it’s gotten extremely cold over the past minute. My mind melts into confusion. I focus on the soup. My eyes ponder over it, reflecting on the spiced broth and each slice of onion. I feel my eyes dilate. A deep breath. In. Then out. “Well, geez. You feeling it yet, man?” I turn to see Vincent lying on his favorite loveseat with one leg over the armrest. “What? When did you get here?” I say. “You find the meaning of life in that soup, man? Shit, I can have my mom microwave more if you want. Looks like you got lost in a wormhole, you’ve been staring at it for half hour now.” I turn back to the soup. The bowl is plastic. The onions are letters like that of a child’s ABC soup. “What the—“ He laughs. “Oh, you’re definitely peaking.”