"Um..." Sunshine says, turning to look and see what is currently left undone. The glimmers of sunlight set into her skin are also in her hair. "Could you sprinkle that bowl of cinnamon and sugar over that dough over there, and roll it up?"
There is a blob of dough approximately the size of Manhattan, rolled out into an approximately flat square.
"Smells good," comes a voice from behind her. Don't think too hard about how he got there without coming in through the door first. Ruin doesn't bother with niceties like that.
The girl at the counter, rolling out dough for rosemary rolls, looks over her shoulder at the unfamiliar voice. The golden web of light set into her skin and hair glimmers faintly at the movement.
"Thank you," she says, offering a slight smile. "There are some extra cinnamon rolls, if you'd like one. They're still warm."
And gooey with melted cinnamon-sugar, drizzled with homemade icing. Also, each one is roughly the size of a human skull.
"Taste-testers get a free sample."
Even with everything else - feeding people is what she does.
Slightly smaller than an average adult male skull, Ruin would say. Right around the size of a late adolescent female, actually. He would know; he's seen enough of them.
He pinches a piece off one of the rolls and pops it in his mouth. "Not bad. My wife can't cook for shit."
Sunshine can't help but bristle slightly. She knows how good her cinnamon rolls are.
"That's too bad," she says. Her lover is head chef at the coffeehouse, the kitchen counterpart to her bakery self. Her mother knows the importance of good food. Her step-father is like Sunshine, with the Feed People gene.
Is it a bad time to meet someone whom most would hardly expect to look happy at food, then?
Possibly. Too bad with the timing, then.
"I haven't seen you in here before," Leon says, despite the fact he hasn't seen hide or tale of the bar for at least a year, despite the fact things would obviously change in that time.
He just likes to keep on top of everything that happens.
The red-head (her coppery hair tied up in a sunflower-dotted kerchief) turns at the sound of the voice. Her red jeans are dusted with flour in places despite the apron that protects her tangerine-orange shirt. Her skin and hair glimmer faintly from the golden sunlight-web set into her.
"You mustn't have been looking, then, I suppose," she says to the man, wiping her hands clean of flour on her apron. "Can I help you?"
She's only half-dressed, looking worn and hungry, her feet bare as she steps into the kitchen. It's clear she wasn't expecting to see anyone in here, the moment her eyes land on Rae.
Sunshine smiles slightly, wiping the flour off her hands onto her apron. "Thank you."
"There's extra cinnamon rolls over there," she says, motioning to the tray of imperfects (for personal disposal, don't you know), which are still warm, gooey with melted cinnamon and sugar, drizzled with homemade icing. "If you'd like one."
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He'd finished watching a comparatively boring football match, and now felt like food. Squid and garlic spinach, perhaps? He'd had that in Greece.
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Sunshine looks up as Urq comes in, and gives him a slight smile. "Hey."
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So she's drying her hair when she spots Rae and her baskets then in another moment her glow,
"You look like you've been busy."
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"There's one with your name on it, though I'm afraid it's not quite done."
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The smile is smaller than Demeter's used to from Sunshine so she comes closer to her, near enough for a hug.
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There is a blob of dough approximately the size of Manhattan, rolled out into an approximately flat square.
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"Thank you," she says, offering a slight smile. "There are some extra cinnamon rolls, if you'd like one. They're still warm."
And gooey with melted cinnamon-sugar, drizzled with homemade icing. Also, each one is roughly the size of a human skull.
"Taste-testers get a free sample."
Even with everything else - feeding people is what she does.
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He pinches a piece off one of the rolls and pops it in his mouth. "Not bad. My wife can't cook for shit."
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"That's too bad," she says. Her lover is head chef at the coffeehouse, the kitchen counterpart to her bakery self. Her mother knows the importance of good food. Her step-father is like Sunshine, with the Feed People gene.
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Possibly. Too bad with the timing, then.
"I haven't seen you in here before," Leon says, despite the fact he hasn't seen hide or tale of the bar for at least a year, despite the fact things would obviously change in that time.
He just likes to keep on top of everything that happens.
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"You mustn't have been looking, then, I suppose," she says to the man, wiping her hands clean of flour on her apron. "Can I help you?"
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...
Yes, he has a question to answer, but apparently he isn't going to.
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"Or are not always here to look?"
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Something quick, and quiet.
She's only half-dressed, looking worn and hungry, her feet bare as she steps into the kitchen. It's clear she wasn't expecting to see anyone in here, the moment her eyes land on Rae.
"Oh. I'm sorry."
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"Hm? Oh, you're fine, don't worry," Rae closes the oven and sets the timer. "If anything, I'm sorry for taking up all the space."
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(Her stomach growls.)
"No, that's all right," she blinks, shaking her head. "I jus' wasn't expectin' t'see nobody else. You're -- lord, it smells divine in here."
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"There's extra cinnamon rolls over there," she says, motioning to the tray of imperfects (for personal disposal, don't you know), which are still warm, gooey with melted cinnamon and sugar, drizzled with homemade icing. "If you'd like one."
Reply
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