He considered, briefly, suggesting they retreat to the safety of linen tablecloths and candlelight.
Then Elena turned to him, excitement practically vibrating through her fingers.
He swallowed the suggestion and followed.
For lunch, he stuck to what his mind classified as "food." Barbequed chicken, duck chops, noodles. Safe. Familiar. Edible without trauma.
Elena, on the other hand, embraced adventure with reckless enthusiasm.
Her paper plate held fried rice and calamari, reasonable choices that lulled him into a false sense of security. Then he noticed the rest.
Skewered scorpions. Black spiders. Water beetles. Silkworm chrysalis.
Holding one side of her mask aside, she sampled each one with admirable courage. Her face would twist in horror, lips pursing, brows knitting, before she turned to him and wordlessly offered the skewer.
It took every shred of discipline he possessed not to visibly recoil.
