3 welcome dinner (1/2)
”So, what do you want as welcome dinner?” Pratt asked.
Pratt was lying on the couch. Dia was sitting on a beanbag by Pratt's head. I was sitting cross legged on the carpet, facing the two of them like a contestant facing the judges on a talent show. They were taking turns firing questions and I was answering without pause.
”I don't know.”
”Do you want to eat at home or go out to some party?” Dia asked.
”Home.”
”So, you don't like people?”
”Not too much.”
”Anti-social?”
”Selective.”
”So, you don't want to tour the academy?”
”No. Not in any particular rush.”
”What aren't you telling us?”
”That I like quiet.”
”So, burger or sandwich?”
”Not much difference between the two. But sandwich, definitely.”
”Alcohol or flavoured soda?”
”Soda. Black.”
”Vegetarian or meaty?”
”Meaty with enough vegetables.”
”Healthy eater. Are you trying to get me to fall for you?”
”Definitely no.”
”So, there's someone you like?”
”No.”
”Then why definitely no to me?”
”I like being invisible.”
”So, that's your dream?”
”No. My dream is an average life.”
”You're weird. You'll fit in perfectly.”
”Umm, thank you?”
I wasn't sure how I felt about their acceptance of me. It felt like I passed a test I didn't know I had taken. A very confusing feeling. At least the ”hazing” was done with.
Pratt headed to the kitchen as he spoke.
”You'll find celebratory dinners all over the academy tonight. Especially when it involves girls and pretty boys. Loud. Sombre. Cheesy. Delinquent. Parties of all kinds really. Let's have our own quiet celebration.”
He stopped as he burrowed into the fridge.
And Dia began speaking immediately.
”Dear Pratt can't eat out. He's very particular about food. Has high demands. And he refuses anything that falls short by even the slightest. But that makes him a wonderful cook. The very best I've ever tasted. If he wasn't so into runes, he'd be a world famous chef with his own restaurant and reservations running longer than a year at least. That would have been so good.”
She had a dreamy expression. Clearly, she meant what she said.
”Dean, chicken?” Pratt screamed.
”Sure. Not my favourite, but I'm fine with it,” I answered.