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mords moi

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“ah, how i do miss italia,” yvonne sighs dramatically into a lacy sleeve, “i am, as you say... a fool... for the aged cheeses.”

raj casts a deeply empathetic palm over his heart.

“and you would not believe,” she expounds, forming a fist, still gazing out portside, “the many, many shapes that they create of...”

she pinches the fingers of a hand together and squints, searching.

“pasta?” says michelle, and jumps back when yvie whirls around to point at her in delight, using the long barrel of a flintlock.

“...pasta...” yvie nods and holsters her gun, all in a reverie.

“i fuckin’ LOVE pasta.” craig interjects into the strange silence.

yvonne considers him with a long, sweeping, silent appraisal that culminates with her smiling like she could eat him instead.

craig stammers something about carboloading.

“madamoiselle,” jake calls out from somewhere in the crow’s nest, “if you let me take you with us next time we go to one’a the crazy-ass hotels on this island... i’m’on’ expand your mind with how many type’a pastas we got.”

yvonne’s already begun the physical climb up towards him.

“and what else have they, at these crazy... ass hotels?” she smiles dangerously.

zahra laughs so hard they can hear her from the stern.