Hungry
Abe watched Chino from the doorway as he eyed the empty plate resting on the counter in front of him. He wondered, not for the first time, what fables and reflections wove through the singer's mind. He looked so intense, studying the plate as its dull, slightly chipped face contained the answers to all of life's mysteries. His dark head lifted fractionally, backed tensed; Abe held his breath and watched expectantly.
He reached for the loaf of bread laid on the cutting board; one slim, lightly browned hand dipping into the bag, long fingers retrieving two slices of bread. Folded the twist-tie neatly back onto the bag and pushed it absently aside, separating the slices of bread and laying them gently on the counter. Stared, squinting, pondering; Abe sensed more than saw the faint frown that turned down the corners of his generous mouth, drew the tiniest wrinkle across his dark brow.
What I wouldn't give to be that frown, Abe thought, feeling oddly Shakespearean.
Chino turned to the refrigerator and spent another three minutes or so contemplating its contents, one hand on the door, the other shifting through the vast amount of food piled onto the shelves. He closed the door and set a jar of mayonnaise, a block of cheese and a deli bag of turkey on the counter. Studied. Contemplated. Thought.
Jesus Christ, how can anyone be so fucking deliberate about making a fucking sandwich, Abe thought, awed.
Strong fingers unscrewed the lid of the mayonnaise jar, setting it aside; butter knife slid into the stuff, spreading it across the bread with smooth, even strokes. He left the knife in the jar, lid off, totally forgotten. It would probably start collecting mold before someone moved it.
He fished a slice of turkey from the deli bag and arranged it neatly on top of the bread, so the edges didn't hang over or anything unsightly like that. Eyed the block of cheese a little suspiciously, as if it might attack; then drew a knife (far longer than necessary) from one drawer and shaved away thin slices with a practiced hand. He settled the slices of cheese on top of the turkey, set the other piece of bread gently atop it all, then, with one swift stroke, cut the sandwich in two. Abe's breath caught in his throat as the vocalist raised the knife to his mouth, licking along the edge of the blade in a way that drew a gasp and very nearly made him faint.
Chino turned to the door at the sound, sandwich in hand; the corners of his eyes crinkled slightly as he recognized the drummer, and an amused smile played about his lips.
"Hungry?" he asked, raising one dark brow.
Abe didn't bother to reply, just pounced on the singer, pushing him against the cupboards. The plate clattered to the floor, sandwich bouncing sadly on the tile and falling apart, utterly forgotten.