For her turn, Fuu busied herself spooning small heaps into bowls from the paper cartons, popping them into the microwave where they hummed and spun, warming. There was sauce on one of her fingers; absently she tucked it into her mouth to lick it off, motioning to him to pass the carton of rice.

"How does it smell?" She'd caught the implication; the question forced him to form his own judgement rather than stick to the emptiness of his observations. The aromas of the food lingered in the air, revived by the warmth. "Usually if it smells good, it tastes good too."