“Oh god, Jane Eyre. I had to sit through that in high school, before I really got into reading. I just hated every minute of it,” she admitted, trying not to giggle. “I was kinda on the precipice between wild youth and literary geek and Jane Eyre didn’t help me one bit. I think I started dumping that class before we got past the school stuff.” Abi wasn’t ashamed to admit that she had slacked off before now, like most kids did. There were aspects of school she loved and some she hated. “My tutor didn’t help either, he was a real hard-ass toe the line type of teacher. And he had been known to throw board erasers at you if you were caught writing notes to each other.”
Listening to him quote so passionately from it, though... it made her take notice. She made a mental note to ask him to read to her from one of the books he’d recommended or if she was lucky he’d read his own to her. “I can imagine how much of a stir something like that would have caused. I guess you don’t think of historical context when you’re passing post-its in class and hoping not to get caught...” she beamed a little, that flip flop feeling coming back with force. “I can’t say I ever got to read Mrs Dalloway. But you know me well enough, I guess, I’ll trust your judgement.” She didn’t doubt that he knew her but she was known to be a very picky little reader, plucking apart most books that she had found and tossing them if they didn’t grab her interest quickly. It was fickle, but that was the game.
Abi suddenly caught sight of the clock and nearly balked. Dinner would be done in five minutes and here she’d got distracted talking to him. “Come on,” she said, getting up and pulling on his arm, “If we sit here all night talking about literature and your proclivities for gaining a reputation, it’ll burn.” Abi dragged him into her kitchen diner, hoping that her tagine hadn’t burned. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said, indicating the round dinner table with two places set up for them.
“And yes,” she said, putting her drink on the dinner table before she stepped into the kitchen area and pulled dinner from the oven. “I think it’s adorable. You all sweet and youthful and idealistic with a shotgun on your arm.” She laughed and bumped the oven door closed with her hip. “If there’s anything disreputable in here, it’s not me, Mr Hemingway...” she set the bubbling pot on the table in between them so he could help himself. She hoped he liked it; learning to cook had been a fucking chore but she now had a few good dishes she could cook by memory alone.
Abi took the pot of steaming couscous from the stove and decanted it into a serving dish, though she was trying to remember Arms and the nurse. “Oh god, really? Which one?” she asked, putting the food on the table. It looked... passable? She thought idly and sat down in the vacant seat. “Wait, you want some wine? I have red or white, that’s all I know about wine.” Abi chuckled a little nervously, a ball of worried energy that hoped he liked what she was peddling. It was so domestic and not really her in the strictest sense but damnit, he looked like he needed feeding and she wanted to do it.