Paint Me Anew (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Don't Kvetch to a Mensch

"How are you feeling?" she asked, desperate to change the topic.

"Light," he answered - and laughed.

She'd heard this rumbly, velvet chortle once before - when he was 'flirting' with Persimmon.

He offered her the joint, but she shook her head, observing him.

"How light?"

"Where did you learn to–" He chuckled carelessly again, ignoring her question. "What did you call it? To 'skin up?'"

"My Mother eventually refused hospitalisation, and I cared for her at home," Anya answered. "Once medication stopped helping with the pain, I started buying skunk for her."

He froze with the joint lifted to his lips and stared at her. She noticed colour returning to his cheeks, and how brilliant his eyes were; and she rose sharply.

"I'll get you more water," she muttered and fled to the kitchenette.

Hopefully the flower would've kicked in by now, and he'd be too chill to continue with the conversation. When she returned, he stretched his left hand to her.

"Could you help me get up, please? I think the pain is sufficiently numbed, and I can walk to the sofa."

"That's good," she said, carefully pulling him up. "And you don't sound particularly toasted."

He glanced down at her - and snorted, scrunching his nose in some sort of a sunny, childish way.

"Or maybe you are," Anya muttered under her breath.

"Toasted," he repeated, and his body shook in silent laughter. Yep, the bloke is chonged. "I sort of fancy a slice of toast. Did you bring any of your amazing bread today?"

"There's food," Anya pointed towards the table. "It's cold by now, but I can warm it up again. Would you like some?"

"Shockingly, I think I do. Are these–" He searched for a word. His eyes were fixed on the plates. "Munchies?"

"Probably." Anya pressed her lips to hide a smile. "C'mon, let's get you to the table. Maybe you'll eat like a normal bloke for once."

"What do you mean by 'like a normal bloke?' Is my appetite not manly enough?" he asked - and giggled. His voice was too low to produce an actual giggle, but he got pretty close.

Anya decided to take a page from his book and faked deafness. After all, there was no answer that wouldn't get her in trouble: she'd either lie and offend him; or disclose too much of her opinion on his manliness. While the soup spun in the microwave, she turned her back to him.

"I was going to ask something, but it's all–" He wiggled his fingers next to his temple and then picked up a spoon to scoop some of the soup she put in front of him. "Is this normal? I can't seem to– It's like catching fish with bare hands." He sent a spoonful of corn chowder into his mouth and hummed in a pleased way. "Yeah, definitely munchies. I don't even like pumpkin, and this tastes like ambrosia. Mrs. Tate really outdid herself."

Anya almost told him the soup was her creation - and then she didn't. What would the point be? To impress him with her chavvy cooking skills? As if. His lips softly closed around the spoon again, and she cowardly looked away. She took the second chair and fidgeted with a corner of a napkin.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

Anya nodded, without giving the question much thought.

"Have you, really? Or is this just your 'Mum reaction?'" he asked, and she gawked at him in shock. "That's what I thought," he murmured. "C'mon, have some. What's that rubbish cliché– About pouring out of an empty cup... or half-full carafe or something." He snorted again and pushed the plate to her.