Post by Octavia on Jul 31, 2014 17:32:46 GMT -6
In the back of her mind, she found herself wondering what on Earth “the vapors” where, if not presumably and possibly a good response to her music. She nearly laughed at the thought of her music having Lyra and Bon Bon reaching for a jar of vapo-rub for some reason, as if cello could give others influenza and congestion. No, the only thing that could do that, perhaps, was the thought of flip-flops. “And here I was, thinking that my imagining you with cookies and a camp hatchet against a backdrop of pine trees and terrified deer was far-fetched.” She playfully let her eyes narrow as she smiled, as though she was some great schemer. It was only appropriate to try to match Bon Bon’s energy at the table, after all, and it was quite ... fun, it seemed. “I’ll give Lyra a call on the matter for us, though I may opt to leave the choice of occasion and activity up to you two. Leave it to me, and I’ll have you at the Saintly Sail Teahouse, giving you a wretched eye for setting down your teapot incorrectly. No, I’m going to go on my instincts and presume you two know fun better than I.” Of course, she wasn’t that coifed and primped that she was some sort of tea-swilling lunatic that got irate at cheap doilies and figs … that was her grandmother, the batty cliche that she was. Octavia followed suit as Bon Bon cleaned up, her sense of time reminding her that lunch was going to end soon at the tone of three buzzy bells, putting her tray back together as orderly as she could, though making sure that atrocious salad got crushed a little. She would just simply have to make a point to get a snack before she started her homework once she got in later. There was some benefit to hunger pangs in the latter part of the school day, she thought. Annoyance would keep her alert while some of her peers fell into a post-lunch coma, after all. Nevertheless, she innocently took one of the cupcakes and began to nibble at it as politely and yet and expediently as she could, trying to ignore the crumbs that got under her nails. She always washed her hands after lunch anyways; contacting any table, desk, or other public surface with skin that some of her less hygienic peers might have without healthy application of antibacterial, moisturizing soap later on was just asking for some sort of foot-scented, greasy disorder. “Thank you quite very much for bringing these cupcakes. They taste like somebody with a whistle-tune in their heart made them, to say little of an actual human being. I am convinced the school food is made by robots operated by half-blind prisoners in a penal colony somewhere. But I’m whining, aren’t I … tell me, before the bell rings, what you like to do for … fun, I suppose? Other than work a podcast and spend time with Lyra … which, I suppose, is already quite a full-serving of enjoyment, one would imagine …” |