Week two [private conversation]

[chilichoc]

[Mel's in Mail's clothes, because her fingers were still bandaged when she got dressed, but they aren't now. It was impossible to cook with the damn band-aids on. She continues to crave rare, rare, almost bloody hamburger, but she's an inexperienced cook at best, so she hasn't gotten one the way she wants it yet. She's been at it for a little while, and there's a plate with several burgers (or pieces of burgers; hers don't seem to hold together like they should) ranging from medium-well-done to barely still rare on the counter beside the stove where she's working. She starts to lift the currently-cooking patty with the spatula, and it falls apart in the pan too.]

Oh, for the love of fuck.