( hey hannibal, that is potentially the most explicit handling of raw chicken humanly possible. and like most people when a weirdly intimate act is being committed in front of them, clarke averts her eyes from the actual counter. choses instead to focus on the back of his head and the bits of profile she can catch from this angle. the far painting is a welcome distraction, at least until she actually looks at it and finds the color used to illustrate the naked women a little too similar to the look of the chicken breast he was just kneading seasons into.

she finally brings that glass of orange juice to her lips and takes a little sip just for want of something to do with herself. the juice is fresh and bright across her tongue, acidic and a little pulpy — which is absolutely the only reason she needs to clear her throat with a light cough before responding. )

I like landscapes. ( once upon a time she'd defended them when another called them boring; they could only really be interpreted as lacking substance by a person who hadn't grown up hundreds of thousands of miles above earth's surface, one who'd had the opportunity to grow bored of the dirt and the grass and trees that sprouted from it. when the impossibly green foliage of the ground was potentially the most benign and beautiful part the planet'd had to offer her and her like, clarke always carries a special place in her heart for a bit of scenery. )

I think Pissarro's the best at them. ( odd choice maybe, but from what little she'd seen the man had mastered the vibrant greens of the countryside as thoroughly as he had the hustle, bustle, and dark grime of the old world. little snapshots of a time she'd never know herself, but could almost extrapolate from canvases stored in the fallout vault of mount weather. yet, in truth, her heart belongs to — ) But Berthe Morisot is my favorite though, I like portraits more.

( a beat, and then unbidden, the urge for one more divulgence: )

I like to draw portraits more.