Elina Shatkin
Dear Gazpacho,
By the time you read this, I'll be long gone. I'm sorry for doing this, but it's for the best. I know it might come as a bit of a surprise to you, but take an honest look at our relationship. It hasn't been good for a long time. It's been years of emotional isolation, lowered standards and veiled contempt. The truth is, I don't understand you. Maybe I never have, but it's not because I didn't try.
I'd be lying if I said, “It's not you, it's me.” It's definitely you. Even before we met, when you were only a whisper on a TV chef's lips, you sounded exciting. So cool and sophisticated and sexy and foreign. You were the Antonio Banderas of soups. But every time I tried a spoonful, all I could think was, “Why is my Bloody Mary in a bowl and where the hell is the vodka?!”
Over the years, we've tried to make it work. I sampled countless variations of you in any number of restaurants. Instead of being peppy and fun, you were like a dank, soggy British morning.
Sure, you've got a fancy name, but when other people aren't around, I know what you're really like. You're just V8 without the preservatives or the marketing pizzazz. You're tomato soup that's inexplicably and unreasonably cold. You aren't the least bit refreshing on a hot summer day. Because when I'm sitting down to brunch on a sweltering Sunday, what I want is a watered down bowl of tomato sauce. Yum!
I'm sorry, I don't mean to get vindictive. I just need space. I hope, someday, we can still be friends. Please try not to be upset if you see me hanging out with ketchup or with that Trader Joe's carton of tomato soup. There are plenty of other fish in the sea, and I know you'll find someone, maybe lots of someones, who can appreciate you the way you deserve.
Your Ex,
Elina
PS-I faked it every time we were together.
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