By now she's most of the way to the kitchen, but hasn't found much of note. She's still taking in the general air of the place-- it's... nice? It's comfortable, but it feels so unlike what she'd pick in her own time that she can't quite make sense of it.
"All right."
If he'd rather-- that's fine. She'd thought maybe exploring without having to censor his reactions would be better; and she'd hoped, at least halfway, that she'd find answers to what happened without having to have an awkward conversation.
But everything is so unfamiliar here, it's not unwelcome to have him beside her. The lights in the kitchen come on as they enter-- motion sensors, unnerving but not unwelcome-- and a large panel on the refrigerator brightens.
THROW OUT YOUR CHICKEN, DANA!, it reads. Eight days past expiration date. Need a grocery delivery?
Above that she can see other messages. Taking a break? A glass of water and a snack might make you feel better. Your chicken is six days past expiration date. Looking for a change? Blackberry vinaigrette is on sale. I miss you! Studies show home-cooking is healthier than takeout. Your chicken is four days past expiration date.
The rest of the kitchen looks like something out of a magazine. Honey-toned wood, stainless steel, a beautiful hand-thrown ceramic bowl full of withered lemons.
She opens the refrigerator with some trepidation-- a few bottles of salad dressing, a carton of eggs, three low-fat yogurts, a bagged salad, the infamous chicken. That, at least, feels more like her.
"Nothing seems out of place," she says with a shrug. Which tells them very little.
no subject
"All right."
If he'd rather-- that's fine. She'd thought maybe exploring without having to censor his reactions would be better; and she'd hoped, at least halfway, that she'd find answers to what happened without having to have an awkward conversation.
But everything is so unfamiliar here, it's not unwelcome to have him beside her. The lights in the kitchen come on as they enter-- motion sensors, unnerving but not unwelcome-- and a large panel on the refrigerator brightens.
THROW OUT YOUR CHICKEN, DANA!, it reads. Eight days past expiration date. Need a grocery delivery?
Above that she can see other messages. Taking a break? A glass of water and a snack might make you feel better. Your chicken is six days past expiration date. Looking for a change? Blackberry vinaigrette is on sale. I miss you! Studies show home-cooking is healthier than takeout. Your chicken is four days past expiration date.
The rest of the kitchen looks like something out of a magazine. Honey-toned wood, stainless steel, a beautiful hand-thrown ceramic bowl full of withered lemons.
She opens the refrigerator with some trepidation-- a few bottles of salad dressing, a carton of eggs, three low-fat yogurts, a bagged salad, the infamous chicken. That, at least, feels more like her.
"Nothing seems out of place," she says with a shrug. Which tells them very little.