nearly done, their food had arrived.
Ingrid had zero idea what she had been ordering. She basically pointed to pictures. Fruit thingys with different sauces, a sort of stew, and what looked like a slab of mozzarella that had been deep fried. The fruit thingys were a bread coated fruit dumpling that went straight to her heart. Emily was too out of it to recognize anything other than the ability to shovel food into her mouth, so Ingrid ordered another macchiato and kept all the dumpling thingys to herself.
* * * * * * * *
Emily’s second macchiato seemed to revive her a bit, and she started eyeing Ingrid’s favorite food even as Em broke off pieces of mozzarella, pulled them up to create long strings of cheese, and then shoved it into her mouth with a fluttering of her lashes. The dove liked melted cheese so much, she could just stay busy with the cheese.
“What are we doing again?” Ingrid asked around a mouthful of bread and fruit.
“We’re going to a convent.”
“We’re pagans,” Ingrid said. “Sort of. We’re lapsed pagans.”
She took another bite. This one was blueberry and her favorite yet. Next time—and there would be a next time—she’d order all blueberry whatever-they-were again, and some of the creamy sauce to submerge them in. She’d submerge them until they were near drowned and falling apart and get it to her mouth somehow. She couldn’t think beyond the food. All desire for tacos was gone and replaced by a desire to never eat anything other than what was currently in her mouth.
“That looks good,” Emily said, eyeing Ingrid’s fruit dumplings.
“They’re all right,” Ingrid lied. But she made up for it by telling the truth, “They aren't tacos.”
Then to change the subject, she said, “So, why are we going to a convent?”
“Hazel made me get a tour of Prague from a local guy. I guess he’s knowledgeable about the magical history of the city, and it starts at the convent. Or ends at it. I can only remember the feel of my sheets against my body and my pillow under my head.”
“Do you see those people over there?” Ingrid nodded to a young couple. They had been on the flight, but she was pretty sure Emily had no idea given how often she’d been puking. The couple were giggling and bouncing. Literally. On their toes as they gazed around the city—which admittedly was gorgeous—everything about the couple bespoke life and energy. Youth.
“Yes,” Emily coughed and then speared one of Ingrid’s dumplings.
Ingrid scowled at Emily and then enjoyed saying all the more, “They were on our flight. You’re not just jet-lagged. You’re old.”
“Hooker,” Emily said and then ate the dumpling. Her eyes narrowed further as she watched Ingrid eat the last dumpling and grin unrepentantly at her best friend. “Wench.”
“Cow-dove.”
“You are the cow, cow. You ate all the yummies.”
“It was all good,” Ingrid replied. “It’s not my fault, you were totally out of it. Eat that stew.”
“I want a fruit thing,” Emily said petulantly.
“We could get more, and laze here watching people go by, but you signed us up for a walking tour.” Ingrid looked down at her shoes sadly and said, “I hadn’t been thinking of walking on cobblestone streets when I bought these.”
Emily followed Ingrid’s gaze to the silver strappy sandal with a pointy toe and heel and said, “Probably you shouldn’t be so vain. You’ll break an ankle and deserve it for your vanity. Also I wanted those shoes.”
Ingrid’s eyes narrowed back at her friend, and then she examined her foot again. It was sexy.
She snapped a pic and sent it to Gabe just as Emily said, “I bet myself you’d do that within 12 hours of landing. And you have. That means, I get to pick our next meal, and I want dumpling thingys.”
“Whatever,” Ingrid moped, inwardly rubbing her hands together. They were having dumplings every single meal. Emily was probably going to hate dumplings by the time they
Ingrid had zero idea what she had been ordering. She basically pointed to pictures. Fruit thingys with different sauces, a sort of stew, and what looked like a slab of mozzarella that had been deep fried. The fruit thingys were a bread coated fruit dumpling that went straight to her heart. Emily was too out of it to recognize anything other than the ability to shovel food into her mouth, so Ingrid ordered another macchiato and kept all the dumpling thingys to herself.
* * * * * * * *
Emily’s second macchiato seemed to revive her a bit, and she started eyeing Ingrid’s favorite food even as Em broke off pieces of mozzarella, pulled them up to create long strings of cheese, and then shoved it into her mouth with a fluttering of her lashes. The dove liked melted cheese so much, she could just stay busy with the cheese.
“What are we doing again?” Ingrid asked around a mouthful of bread and fruit.
“We’re going to a convent.”
“We’re pagans,” Ingrid said. “Sort of. We’re lapsed pagans.”
She took another bite. This one was blueberry and her favorite yet. Next time—and there would be a next time—she’d order all blueberry whatever-they-were again, and some of the creamy sauce to submerge them in. She’d submerge them until they were near drowned and falling apart and get it to her mouth somehow. She couldn’t think beyond the food. All desire for tacos was gone and replaced by a desire to never eat anything other than what was currently in her mouth.
“That looks good,” Emily said, eyeing Ingrid’s fruit dumplings.
“They’re all right,” Ingrid lied. But she made up for it by telling the truth, “They aren't tacos.”
Then to change the subject, she said, “So, why are we going to a convent?”
“Hazel made me get a tour of Prague from a local guy. I guess he’s knowledgeable about the magical history of the city, and it starts at the convent. Or ends at it. I can only remember the feel of my sheets against my body and my pillow under my head.”
“Do you see those people over there?” Ingrid nodded to a young couple. They had been on the flight, but she was pretty sure Emily had no idea given how often she’d been puking. The couple were giggling and bouncing. Literally. On their toes as they gazed around the city—which admittedly was gorgeous—everything about the couple bespoke life and energy. Youth.
“Yes,” Emily coughed and then speared one of Ingrid’s dumplings.
Ingrid scowled at Emily and then enjoyed saying all the more, “They were on our flight. You’re not just jet-lagged. You’re old.”
“Hooker,” Emily said and then ate the dumpling. Her eyes narrowed further as she watched Ingrid eat the last dumpling and grin unrepentantly at her best friend. “Wench.”
“Cow-dove.”
“You are the cow, cow. You ate all the yummies.”
“It was all good,” Ingrid replied. “It’s not my fault, you were totally out of it. Eat that stew.”
“I want a fruit thing,” Emily said petulantly.
“We could get more, and laze here watching people go by, but you signed us up for a walking tour.” Ingrid looked down at her shoes sadly and said, “I hadn’t been thinking of walking on cobblestone streets when I bought these.”
Emily followed Ingrid’s gaze to the silver strappy sandal with a pointy toe and heel and said, “Probably you shouldn’t be so vain. You’ll break an ankle and deserve it for your vanity. Also I wanted those shoes.”
Ingrid’s eyes narrowed back at her friend, and then she examined her foot again. It was sexy.
She snapped a pic and sent it to Gabe just as Emily said, “I bet myself you’d do that within 12 hours of landing. And you have. That means, I get to pick our next meal, and I want dumpling thingys.”
“Whatever,” Ingrid moped, inwardly rubbing her hands together. They were having dumplings every single meal. Emily was probably going to hate dumplings by the time they
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