Soups

In the summer of 1945, Simon and I took a liking to each other. His house was just across from ours, so we eyed each other for two and a half months without ever exchanging a word. We just looked—he from the doorstep of his house, I from the window of ours. We looked at each other at breakfast time: Simon was sitting on the windowsill peacefully eating his soup, while I was dipping my unbuttered bread into a huge bowl of milk barely cut with ersatz coffee. We looked at each other in church; as my teenagers would say later, that sneaking of mellow eloquent looks while the priest was raving on about the ills of the world was wicked great. And most of all, we looked at each other at night: While Simon was again eating his soup, this time on the doorstep, I was showing off like mad in the after-dinner volleyball game, which I otherwise hated passionately.