Just two weeks so far, but there's plenty to show off. I found a nest of Coco Rumsey Catchers. [ Unsurprising to anyone who's known her for longer than fifteen minutes, Luna had a tendency to wander off from the group, taking everything in her own time and her own pace, finding out-of-the-way spots to sketch the animals. She had a favourite place on the island to view the sunrise, and another for the sunset. Another for afternoon siestas. (It was starting to be a point of mild frustration for the man assigned to her as mentor and supervisor, considering how often she could simply vanish — but he was getting accustomed to her, too. She more than made up for it with the drawings she came back with.)

Luna listens to the hodgepodge of the order being agreed upon: tsipouro, plus the decision for the kitchen to just haul out their own recommendations of tapas, a random and improvised assortment of food for the foreigners. As Charlie holds out the second glass, she takes it with delicate fingers (her nails are painted robin's egg blue but chipped and worn at the edges, the colour fading). Slow, she reminds herself. She could, sometimes, follow instruction.

She takes a slow sip and her face pinches. The drink is chilled and refreshing, but it's also like being socked in the eye with potency; this one doesn't taste overwhelmingly of anise like ouzo, so it's different from what she's had earlier in the trip. She presses her lips contemplatively against the edge of the glass, savouring the flavour, trying to make up her mind. ]

I can't feel my tongue.

[ Verdict: ]

It's delicious.