[He carefully takes the plate and fork, revealing how much of a toll his weakened body has put on him through a shaky grasp. It's a miracle that he didn't pass out in the snow from hypothermia or hunger. Or both.
His frown deepens as he struggles to cut a piece off with his fork, but perseverance prevails. When he puts the forkful of pie into his mouth, his eyes slide closed in contentment. It somehow tastes even better, knowing Steinbeck made it with his own hands.]
It's delicious.
[He doesn't even wait to swallow before voicing his approval. Classic Lovecraft.]
no subject
His frown deepens as he struggles to cut a piece off with his fork, but perseverance prevails. When he puts the forkful of pie into his mouth, his eyes slide closed in contentment. It somehow tastes even better, knowing Steinbeck made it with his own hands.]
It's delicious.
[He doesn't even wait to swallow before voicing his approval. Classic Lovecraft.]