It sounds like we should all be training ourselves with— tweaka? [ Luna carefully sounds out the Romanian word, then adjusts her pronunciation with Charlie's guidance a moment later. ] Țuică. Țu-i-că.
[ The cold tapas don't have to be cooked, so a burly waiter comes slouching out soon enough carrying their small platters, to be placed in the center of the table for sharing: house-made salted mackerel, sour pickled beans, smoked feta cheese with tomato paste and olive oil. They're all bold and brassy flavours, salty and briney to offset the tsipouro. Beside her, Rolf's hand sneaks in from an entirely different conversation and steals some feta. She smacks his wrist mock-chidingly, but it's barely a light tap; the food's meant for sharing, although most of the others are putting their heads together to order something else. The other side of the table is absorbed in an amiable argument — hippocampi migration patterns and some unseasonable weather and whether or not the aquatic horses might have moved on from this island entirely — but it doesn't catch Luna's attention, which meanders back to her drinking partner instead.
After Charlie's playful bit with the shirt, the neck of his shirt is now hanging looser around his throat than before. Which is very rude, because now she simply cannot help but wonder what he does look like underneath. She distracts herself by inhaling some salted mackerel. ]
How long have you been in Romania, miles and miles away? It seems you'd been gone a whi— oh, this is good, try this one.
no subject
[ The cold tapas don't have to be cooked, so a burly waiter comes slouching out soon enough carrying their small platters, to be placed in the center of the table for sharing: house-made salted mackerel, sour pickled beans, smoked feta cheese with tomato paste and olive oil. They're all bold and brassy flavours, salty and briney to offset the tsipouro. Beside her, Rolf's hand sneaks in from an entirely different conversation and steals some feta. She smacks his wrist mock-chidingly, but it's barely a light tap; the food's meant for sharing, although most of the others are putting their heads together to order something else. The other side of the table is absorbed in an amiable argument — hippocampi migration patterns and some unseasonable weather and whether or not the aquatic horses might have moved on from this island entirely — but it doesn't catch Luna's attention, which meanders back to her drinking partner instead.
After Charlie's playful bit with the shirt, the neck of his shirt is now hanging looser around his throat than before. Which is very rude, because now she simply cannot help but wonder what he does look like underneath. She distracts herself by inhaling some salted mackerel. ]
How long have you been in Romania, miles and miles away? It seems you'd been gone a whi— oh, this is good, try this one.