Wooden [Nepenthe]
[6]
"Do you just enjoy getting under my skin?"
Nepenthe's mouth bent into a slow, satisfied smile. She couldn't tell if Maes took her jest about their cooking in stride or was genuinely irritated. If it was the latter, she wanted to tell them that skin was thin as a grape's. It would've lined up with the picture he'd painted of himself so far—she was persistently impressed and nettled by how he managed to be both a slimy, smug prick and painfully insecure at once.
The truth was, with so many weeks since her last dose, food had started to take on the same wooden taste. Physically it had the same effects—enough alcohol made her swimmy and she felt nourished after a meal, but she ate by rote as flavour slipped away from her. Mae's worst meals were probably better than her best cooking, but she couldn't tell, only getting a flat suggestion of salt, herbs, fat.
It made eating bland rations easier but savouring real meals more difficult. She had to shift her focus to scent and texture: if the meat was tender or chewy, if it was burnt or roasted to perfection. She could still engage and judge by those merits.
She kept this to herself. If nothing else, Maes trying to prove himself to someone with the palate of a brick wall would be entertaining.
