I poked around in the fridge until I found all the ingredients for fried chicken.
The popping and sizzling of the chicken in the pan was a nice, homey sound; I felt
less nervous while it filled the silence.
It smelled so good that I started eating it right out of the pan, burning my tongue
in the process. By the fifth or sixth bite, though, it had cooled enough for me to
taste it. My chewing slowed. Was there something off about the flavor? I checked
the meat, and it was white all the way through, but I wondered if it was completely
done. I took another experimental bite; I chewed twice. Ugh ? definitely
bad. I jumped up to spit it into the sink. Suddenly, the chicken-and-oil smell was
revolting. I took the whole plate and shook it into the garbage, then opened the
windows to chase away the scent. A coolish breeze had picked up outside. It felt
good on my skin.
Cool arms were around me, pulling me against him.
"Damn rancid chicken," I moaned.
"Are you all right?" His voice was strained.
"Fine," I panted. "It's just food poisoning. You don't need to see this. Go away."
"Not likely,Bella."
Why does she spend so much time writing about chicken? :?