“I never liked soup much when I had my teeth,” one of the old men remarked to no one in particular.
“That’s funny,” the other man said with a skeletal chuckle, “I never liked color as much as I do now that I can’t see anything.”
The first man ignored the second. “Is there any more soup?” he asked himself, hobbling over to the fire and peering into the pot.
“How should I know? You do the cooking. I can’t see anything.” The second man replied, his irritation evident in his voice.
“Looks like there’s just enough for another bowl.”