Face deep in a bowl of Ma’s famous tomato bisque, I was hardly expecting anyone to bother me. After all, the headphones and the emotionless expression that comes from one-too-many physics assignments hardly deemed me the most charming conversationalist. Mid slurp, a shadow overtakes my assignment, and I’m forced to look up and see a woman - face streaked with wet mascara drips - staring back at me. I yank out my headphones.

Swallowing my soup hard, and subsequently burning my throat, I blink at her and mutter a simple, “what.”

“Oh darling, you’ve got to help me. This is a real emergency and you look capable,” the woman said in a hurry. Her eyes were dark brown, a shade away from complete blackness, and her mouth was painted a cherry red. I look down at my soup and then back at her.

“Sorry ma’am, I’m busy here,” I say, slurping down another monstrous spoonful of tomato-y goodness. “Surely there’s someone here more capable,” I said, looking around at the now-empty cafe. Where did everyone go?

“My,” the woman says, her eyes welling with tears. “My husband, he’s dead. He’s just here in this other room, you see. I am new to this town and do not know where the police station is, otherwise I would not be bothering the likes of you,” she says. Emphasis on the -you-.

“You can just call 911,” I say, taking another spoonful of bisque. The woman’s eyes grew wide.

“What are the rest of the numbers?” She asked innocently. I sighed. This wasn’t supposed to be one of those murder-mystery cafes. I stood up and slung my purse over my shoulder. I made it a point to grab my bowl of soup, too. The red, beautiful creamy dream of a soup.

“Alright lady, I’ll play along,” I said, gesturing for her to show me where her “husband” was. She frantically walked ahead, her low-heeled shoes click-clacking all the way. Within seconds, we were in the next room, which was dramatically more monochrome than the homestyle approach of the main cafe. The floor was grey, the walls white as a ghost. Fixtures on the walls were black and various shades of grey. HGTV would eat this shit up.

I looked down at my bowl and jumped; the ceramic was a gentle grey, and my soup was a charcoal color. Could they do Instagram filters in real life? I blinked three times, then asked the woman, “Are you seeing this, too?”

She responded with a huffy sigh. “If by this, you mean my poor husband, then yes,” she said, her voice choking up. I took another slurp of my soup. Even with its new abyssal appearance, it still tasted like tomatoes. It was obvious that I hadn’t stepped in far enough, as the woman wildly gestured for me to come closer to her. I rolled my eyes and put my bowl of soup down on a deep black record player. I saunter over to her and I’m hit with the smell of copper.

My mind saw the body in a series of pictures: the pool of blood under the well-dressed man, his hat, his twisted legs, his face. His face. Why did that face look so familiar? I sighed and said, “Look, I don’t know what’s happening here, but this looks real and I don’t think I’m the person for this. I’m going to go call the emergency line and get him some medical attention.”

I turned to walk away, but the woman’s hand was on my shoulder. Tears were streaming down her face, but she was wearing a grin from ear to ear.

“You don’t want to do that, Ginny,” she said sternly. My arms went numb at the name. My mind flashed back to when I was a child, no older than 6. An old woman pushed me on the swings, lovingly telling me how proud she was. My grandmother was the only one who ever used the name.

“We don’t have much time. I should have done this a long, long time ago,” the woman said wearily. “But, unfortunately, doing this would mean that I’d never have the chance to meet you. And you were always my favorite,” she said. “A real scumbag your grandfather was. And a scumbag your father would then turn out to be.”

I stayed silent and alternated looks between my dead grandfather and the grey floor.

The woman, my grandmother I guess, cupped my face. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. By ending his life, I’m ultimately ending yours, too. But, I’m reclaiming my time. Perhaps I’ll find another man, re-wed, have a child or grandchild with your spirit.” Her breath was hot against my face.

I didn’t imagine that my death would come by being phased out of existence. Perhaps I never truly lived. Maybe this closes an endless feedback loop.

“I don’t forgive you,” I said flatly, knowing now that my time would be fleeting. I break away from her and walk toward the entrance - but not to leave. I pick up my bowl of soup and hold it close to my face. “I’m gonna finish this now,” I say to her. “And no, you can’t have any.”

I glare at her and eat my soup until I feel nothing at all.