Ari ♫ ♪ ♬ (gracenotes) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-09-08 13:28:00 |
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Her flat was closer, no one was currently using it in her absence, and she had a really big bed -- all the reason necessary to decide, in the mutual exhaustion which came with the drop of adrenaline and the headache that came with a fading hangover, that her flat was more than adequate for tonight’s sleeping arrangements. Ari had lost her key -- again -- but at this point, the “unpickable lock” was barely a deterrent; she picked it quickly with the new pick she’d finally found a locksmith to make and sighed contentedly as the door swung open into the flat. She turned on the light, illuminating the colorful, somewhat chaotic space, with endless shelves of books and scrolls, the instrument rack wedged between the corner and the window, and the couch and bed both overflowing with brightly colored pillows. Ari tugged off her boots and dropped her travel bag on the floor before placing her mandolin case carefully on the padded ottoman she kept near the door for this express purpose. “Make yourself at home,” she told Rin, wandering back towards the kitchen. “I can’t believe I am saying this, but it may actually be too late for coffee. Wine? I have… mostly red, I’m afraid, but I can scrounge up a bottle of white if you’re not too picky. There’s tea, too.” Courtesy of Drake and Aspel; she never drank it. “Are you hungry?” she added after a moment. “Because I’m famished. I can call downstairs and have them bring something up.” “I’ll take tea. Longjing tea, if you have it.” Rin set her own weekend bag down gently, next to Ari’s, and suppressed a yawn. Though she could stay up for hours on a normal evening -- especially with Ari in tow -- Miles’ gigs always wore her down. The thought of food, however, brought her to life. Not being able to cook her own food was one of the only things she disliked about going out on jobs -- luckily, her friend’s flat had a sprawling kitchen (one that was oddly pristine, too; Rin would have to ask her later how she kept it so). “We don’t need that,” she said, with more energy than she had spoken moments prior. “I can cook for you! What do you like?” “There’s… something green,” Ari said after a moment of thought regarding her rather meager tea collection. “That’s about as far as I know -- but you’re welcome to it.” She had a kettle -- one of the few kitchen implements she actually used, thanks again to her flat’s most frequent visitors -- so she filled it up, set it on the stove. “Sugar and honey in the cabinet to your left.” She doubted Rin could miss them as the cabinet was otherwise nearly bare. “I like food,” she said, readily, taking a coffee mug and a wineglass from one of the cabinets. “I am the least picky person you will ever meet. But I can almost guarantee you,” she continued, amused, “that you are not making dinner.” Not unless Rin could dance up ingredients, at any rate. Ari had vodka in the freezer, an opened bottle of wine in the refrigerator, and possibly an apple or two, kept around for mornings when her throat felt scratchy, though they may have been wizened by now. Maybe crackers somewhere or other, although that might be expecting far too much. “Underestimating me, are you?” Rin said with a laugh. She walked over to Ari’s fridge, taking a moment to admire the shining stainless steel door before tugging it open. Whereupon she found that Ari had not, in fact, been exaggerating. A long-necked bottle of red wine was the star of the show -- it sat, center-stage, with nothing to either side. Three apples leaned against each other on the side door, as if unable to stand by themselves. “Ajora,” she gasped, shutting the fridge as quickly as she’d opened it. “How do you eat?” Surely Ari couldn’t eat out for every meal. Ari reached past her friend to once again open the refrigerator for the wine bottle, extracting it to fill her glass nearly to the brim. “There is this marvelous invention,” she said, taking a sip of the wine, “entitled the Emillion Communications Network. If one so desires, one may select any of a large number of restaurants and request that food be brought piping hot to one’s residence. There are also,” she continued, “any number of food stalls in the Theatre District and elsewhere. Finally, I have a tavern with a full kitchen just downstairs and my landlady is quite used to my whims -- and the hours I keep.” In fact, she had chosen this flat over others because the accessibility of an around-the-clock kitchen -- mediocre though the food might be -- had appealed. Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “But that’s so bad for you!” Rin chided as she walked to the other side of the kitchen, to take her pick from Ari’s tea collection: three aluminum containers inconspicuously tucked into a corner . She picked up the first, and unlike the refrigerator, the container was almost completely full. By the weight and sound, she knew she’d found loose leaf tea, which was exciting. Considering the emptiness of the other regions of Ari’s kitchen, Rin had almost been expecting teabags in a handful of exotically named, assuredly bland favors. She took off the cap. The aroma confirmed that the tea was, indeed, “something green.” Not what she was used to, but Rin wasn’t about to complain. The kettle whistled and Ari took it off the burner. “There should be ice,” she said. “Drake always says something about scalding the leaves. I’d call him fussy, but I’m worse with coffee.” Her one and only culinary accomplishment. Having completed what few tasks she really could do around the kitchen, she pulled herself up to perch on the counter, swung her legs. “And yet I am fairly certain I haven’t been ill in half a decade at least. Perhaps other people ought to try my diet -- it seems to have done me more good than ill.” “He knows what he’s talking about,” Rin replied with a laugh. She poured hot water into the mug Ari had provided her with, and then opened the freezer. Its contents consisted of a bottle of vodka, and a batch of ice cubes churned out by the ice cube maker. No more, no less. She picked out one cube with the supplied tongs and dropped it into the cup, watching as the ice began to melt almost immediately. “And you have your youth to thank for your health, I’m sure. In twenty years, you’ll be seeing the effects of all that processed oil, if you’re not careful.” “Twenty years,” Ari said with an incredulous shake of the head. It felt a lifetime away. “I’ll settle for getting through tonight, which we might not if we die of hunger. So, what will it be -- an empty stomach or a delivery from downstairs?” She wondered, absently, if that grocer of Aspel’s was a night owl. She doubted somehow that he would want to be called up at this hour. She made her most piteous face and adopted her most wheedling tone. “If I promise to eat a salad tomorrow, may I please have something brought?” It wouldn’t be a hardship -- put a salad in front of her, and she gladly ate salad. It just depended on what was easily accessible, really. In the end, tavern food was better than no food. “Delivery it is,” Rin replied mildly, testing the warmth of her hot water with the tip of her pinky finger. It seemed about ready, so she reached into the tin of tea leaves with a small spoon and scooped them into her mug. Her eyes drew to her communicator, noting the time. She always steeped the leaves for three minutes, exactly. “I’ll be following up with you on this salad bargain,” she added, teasing. “You and Drake,” Ari said with a shake of her head as she picked up her communicator and quickly sent a request downstairs for two meals to be brought up. This late, the kitchen wouldn’t have much in the way of choices -- she usually let the staff decide. “‘Eat something green, Ari. How are you still alive, Ari?’ Aspel, too, if it comes to it -- she’s actually had groceries boxed up and sent here before.” And she could admit that they had certainly been handy to have around on hell week, when she had crawled her way home too exhausted to do anything but collapse -- but the rest of the time? It just seemed like too much work. The leaves had finished steeping, so Rin fished another mug out of Ari’s largely empty cabinets, slowly pouring her newly brewed tea into it. “We’re only concerned for your well-being,” she replied, amused. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we’d prefer you not to die of a heart attack at forty.” “With this many surrogate mother hens, I think I am safe,” Ari said with amusement of her own. There was a knock at her door, and she found herself grinning as she set down her wineglass. “But there’s nothing quite like instant gratification. Be right back.” The kitchen boy at the door was a familiar face -- she tipped him, took the boxes he carried, and sent him on his way. The cost of the meals would go on her tab, which she generally paid along with her rent. Making her way back to the kitchen, she opened one of the boxes to peek inside, said, “See, look, there’s even squash in here.” At least, she thought it was squash under whatever sauce had been poured across the chicken, potatoes, and mixed vegetables. “That’s green.” Opening her own box, Rin had her lips preemptively pursed, as if preparing to be disappointed. With food, she was always a harsh critic. And though the presentation of her dinner left much to be desired -- not that she would have expected anything spectacular from tavern food -- she had to admit that it did smell good, especially on an empty stomach. She picked up one of the plastic forks that had been included with their meal, and prodded at the mystery squash. It gave way immediately, clearly cooked beyond its prime. She abandoned it, and opted for a mouthful of chicken instead. “It’s not bad,” she admitted, after seconds spent chewing thoughtfully. The gravy-like sauce was flavorful, and the meat was tender. Ari had started with the vegetables -- that they were overcooked mattered little, for she was hungry and her hangover was finally a distant enough memory that she could eat -- and, having swallowed her first mouthful, said, “Not bad is sufficient on an empty stomach and after a job well done. Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say.” She speared a chunk of potato, popped it into her mouth, and barely suppressed a yawn. “I’ll bring you an omelette when we wake up tomorrow,” she promised. That it was likely to be after noon mattered little -- the kitchen would do it if she asked. “I’ll have them put as many vegetables as possible into it until you can barely taste the eggs. I’ll even share it with you.” And that, she hoped, would be sufficient to get her a bit of respite until at least next week. |