Opal? Soup?

The first time I’ve chewed any leaves in months.  Four or five rehydrated, and two big fresh ones.  

As I chewed I felt I wasn’t making as much saliva as usual.  And then that I would give up for the night, it wasn’t working.  There were hints of the customary silvery lights, and the curves, but no cartoon cats.  

A spirit of antagonism: a teenage lass goading, carping, egging on, teasing….  This was part of the swinging motion which is also usual.   My sense of hearing was acute, and as before my neighbour cursing at the television was a distraction.

Soon a woman with a sunken mouth, almost as if she had false teeth, though that wasn’t the reason.  She was familiar, of course…  

I was waiting for the pull, almost seeking it, and it came more than once but seemed to lead down blind alleys.  At last I glimpsed Korky.

“Old pal.  Soup.”  The absurd refrain.  “Opal… Soup”?  And the silvery light, flowing like mercury,  but female parts, and from silver to fleshy pink, opening out, almost pouring, and the refrain… “Opal…”  I was asking what it meant.  

An Irish voice, reasonable; resolution.  The girlish catcalling showed a divided self: the way ahead was unity and kindness.  

Coming back I felt torpid, heavy.  Nearly fifty minutes had passed; it had felt like five.  I washed my mouth with brandy, which was a good thing.