'Mhfmm' is muffled confirmation around the last bite of fritter, still not wholly certain he could correctly identify its contents. Clark considers an undiscerning palate to be an asset. Insert whatever midwestern cuisine joke you like here.
He stacks food containers on plates along with a couple of forks for spearing things, superbalances these items with the skill that has less to do with alien agility or dexterity and everything to do with the fact he's juggled worse through more treacherous terrain before plenty of times. Stacks of empty grease-wet plates and bowls, platters of fingerprint-smeared beer glasses chittering together, ducking past competitive dart games, roughhousey crowds watching the game on the corner television. This is cakewalk.
Setting out everything like a picnic on the bed, low lamplight. The music from down the beach has mellowed. A fresh gust of sea air pushes through the window, hitting Clark in the back. It's the little things.
He trades a plate and the other fritter for a beer can, says 'thank you', and sits crossed legged on the mattress, back curved away from the headboard. Instinctual table manners see him helping Bruce fill his plate with handed off containers. Bites a potato skin, makes a surprised face at the flavour. Bed vote notwithstanding, sensuality and intimacy of moments ago is traded in for a friendly kind of companionship that is equally as assumptive of space and attention.
Clark talks a little of the Virgin Islands, the hurricane, quietly informative, and checks his phone, notes, "It's dinnertime on the east coast too," with a twinge of amusement.
no subject
He stacks food containers on plates along with a couple of forks for spearing things, superbalances these items with the skill that has less to do with alien agility or dexterity and everything to do with the fact he's juggled worse through more treacherous terrain before plenty of times. Stacks of empty grease-wet plates and bowls, platters of fingerprint-smeared beer glasses chittering together, ducking past competitive dart games, roughhousey crowds watching the game on the corner television. This is cakewalk.
Setting out everything like a picnic on the bed, low lamplight. The music from down the beach has mellowed. A fresh gust of sea air pushes through the window, hitting Clark in the back. It's the little things.
He trades a plate and the other fritter for a beer can, says 'thank you', and sits crossed legged on the mattress, back curved away from the headboard. Instinctual table manners see him helping Bruce fill his plate with handed off containers. Bites a potato skin, makes a surprised face at the flavour. Bed vote notwithstanding, sensuality and intimacy of moments ago is traded in for a friendly kind of companionship that is equally as assumptive of space and attention.
Clark talks a little of the Virgin Islands, the hurricane, quietly informative, and checks his phone, notes, "It's dinnertime on the east coast too," with a twinge of amusement.