I made a curried parsnip soup this week. It smelt wholesome. I left it to cool in the kitchen. Just before I went to bed, I put it in the fridge.
The next day my girlfriend texted me to say she had found a giant black moth in my soup. She removed the moth and put the soup back in the fridge.
Later that day, I returned home from work, hungry and weak. The cupboards were bare. I felt overcome with a strange sense of inevitability.
I warmed the soup and ate it, wincing each time a shard of black pepper fizzed on my tongue, the way a giant moth limb would.
It has the making of a fable, yet nothing else happened. There was no resolution. Perhaps, I need to die or turn into a moth or a parsnip or something other than a man with a slight bellyache. There’s still time.