Sometimes, Much felt like he'd forgotten everything he knew about how to be a person. Like, most of his life he'd lived in the moment, winging it, his emotions leading the way when it came to reactions to things. Lately, something would happen and there'd be a kind remove – a long few moments of right... How do I do this again?
Simple stupid stuff. How do I make small talk at work again? How do I pick what I'm doing with my spare time? What shirt to wear? Just a little... Faltering, when it came to identity. Just a little uncertainty.
When he reached out to Mary to offer her garlic bread and moose lasagna, it felt like he was following a script. He wasn't disingenuous, the offer wasn't forced, but there was a background worry that he wasn't one hundred percent himself. That he didn't know how to be one hundred percent himself anymore. That something was lost maybe on a shelf with a saint's soul or maybe in between some page-boy-blood-stained cobblestones or maybe somewhere else entirely.
The garlic bread was fucking fantastic though, and the kitchen smelled of browned meat and onions and herbs and cheese, and one of Alan's playlists was on in the background, and Rebel Rabbit was loose, hopping to hide behind the sofa as Much made his way to the door to let Mary in. "Hope your taste buds are strapped in," he said, smiling at her, "for the garlickiest, moosiest night of your life."