Lunchtime at the Bakery

A sourdough bread bowl filled to the brim with tomato soup. A perfect late lunch.
The diner, a thin young woman with chestnut brown hair, sits down in front of her meal and takes a deep whiff. The sweet yet tangy scent wafts up to her petite, pointed nose, tickling her senses.
“I’m hungry!” she proclaims, to no one in particular.
But before she can eat even one spoonful of the hot, creamy soup, she has to ready herself.
She crosses her legs, slender and lithe, ending in bulky Ugg Boots, left over right. She is prim, ladylike, despite the fur-covered boots that would look less out of place on a lumberjack, caveman or alpine skier.
Leaning forward, she picks up her smooth, black plastic spoon. Black nail polish adorns her fingertips. Stylish on her, not gothic.
She dips the spoon into her soup, and quickly brings it to her lips. Careful though, ever so careful, she slurps it up. A splash of red on her pale blue scarf would mean disaster.
One bite, then another of the hot liquid. Tastes of tangy tomatoes, sweet basil and rich cream tickle her tongue. The flavors warm her mouth and her belly.
After ten or so spoonfuls and a bite of the bread bowl, she’s done. Like a bird, she’s only picked at her food.
Leaning back in her chair, she examines her polish, checking for chips. She nods her head to the beat of the jazzy Coldplay song playing in the background.
Content, she sighs, looks about, and stands. It’s time to go. Lunchtime is over.