Chinese who? That caught her a bit off-guard in turn, causing her to blink sharply as he forced her to catch up with his thoughts. ". . . Food, James."
She pushed the door closed behind him, twisting back towards the main room. For her turn, she seemed to be completely unaware of the effect of her clothing -- or was fine with having him look. "Though maybe if you're lucky, someone of the actual nationality will deliver it."
The short front hallway opened into a large room replete with large, high windows -- windows currently obscured with a fine veil of drapes. Each room flowed into the next, the kitchen with only a low bar to separate it from the living room and what was obviously Fuu's work area -- a wide desk with a cluster of monitors and a few towers, piles of work-oriented papers scattered over the surface along with odds and ends like bits of motherboard, wires dangling. Even the bedroom was visible -- an untouched-looking bed behind a shoji screen.
The rest of the room was neat and clean -- almost too much so -- with furniture in clean lines in shades of gray, beige, and dark red. The two things out of place seemed to be the desk and an afghan lumped over the back of the couch, the pillow at one end ruffled as though someone had been using it for a bed.
There were few ornaments, but a number of pictures set on shelves. Along one side of a false fireplace, a shelf with photographs -- a young woman and a man, the frames turned slightly towards each other, a small vase with two lilies between them. On the other, a portrait of an elderly Japanese man, hands gnarled like the roots of a tree, and with it a small carving of an animal that looked a great deal like a running fox.
no subject
She pushed the door closed behind him, twisting back towards the main room. For her turn, she seemed to be completely unaware of the effect of her clothing -- or was fine with having him look. "Though maybe if you're lucky, someone of the actual nationality will deliver it."
The short front hallway opened into a large room replete with large, high windows -- windows currently obscured with a fine veil of drapes. Each room flowed into the next, the kitchen with only a low bar to separate it from the living room and what was obviously Fuu's work area -- a wide desk with a cluster of monitors and a few towers, piles of work-oriented papers scattered over the surface along with odds and ends like bits of motherboard, wires dangling. Even the bedroom was visible -- an untouched-looking bed behind a shoji screen.
The rest of the room was neat and clean -- almost too much so -- with furniture in clean lines in shades of gray, beige, and dark red. The two things out of place seemed to be the desk and an afghan lumped over the back of the couch, the pillow at one end ruffled as though someone had been using it for a bed.
There were few ornaments, but a number of pictures set on shelves. Along one side of a false fireplace, a shelf with photographs -- a young woman and a man, the frames turned slightly towards each other, a small vase with two lilies between them. On the other, a portrait of an elderly Japanese man, hands gnarled like the roots of a tree, and with it a small carving of an animal that looked a great deal like a running fox.