[ In the yellow parallelogram of sunlight spilling in through the window, the silver pots glimmer, heaps of herbs and groceries strewn on the counter. Essentials for the boiled lobster. The dip-sauce. The seaweed stew. The dessert. He lets Korra peer at the spread, her arm a light line of contact against his. Being around her makes him very aware of his own body and the space it takes up, its conjunction to hers, to the kitchen. ]
[ But he can afford to be businesslike, at least on the surface. He's here to teach her how to cook. Not to fool around. ]
I figured you'd start with something simple. Seaweed stew. Pears poached in red wine. And --
[ Crouching, he lifts the cooler onto the kitchen table, popping the lid open. Sprawled in the ice, the lobsters have sunk into a coma-like stasis. He lifts one dark-blue crustacean out, keeping his back to Korra so she can't see the chest's contents. The lobster's shell is icy-cold on his palm, but its pincers still wave sluggishly. Huh. Stubborn little bastard. Dibs on this one, he decides. ]
[ Turning to Korra, he extends the lobster with a half-smile. ] -- And these things.
no subject
[ But he can afford to be businesslike, at least on the surface. He's here to teach her how to cook. Not to fool around. ]
I figured you'd start with something simple. Seaweed stew. Pears poached in red wine. And --
[ Crouching, he lifts the cooler onto the kitchen table, popping the lid open. Sprawled in the ice, the lobsters have sunk into a coma-like stasis. He lifts one dark-blue crustacean out, keeping his back to Korra so she can't see the chest's contents. The lobster's shell is icy-cold on his palm, but its pincers still wave sluggishly. Huh. Stubborn little bastard. Dibs on this one, he decides. ]
[ Turning to Korra, he extends the lobster with a half-smile. ] -- And these things.