Clyde found Micah in the kitchen, his voice carrying in light, half-exasperated bursts. At first, Clyde thought he was speaking to someone in the room.
He approached, curious. Who could've come without his permission? The nanny? And who was cooking?
When he reached the doorway, he stopped. Micah stood at the counter with a chopping board in front of him, a knife gripped in one hand, a pile of spring onions scattered like tiny green confetti. He was cutting them into strange, uneven shapes, some slices too thin and bruised from too much pressure, others thick and too long. His movements were jerky, cautious in some moments and oddly reckless in others, as if he couldn't decide whether he was cooking or battling the vegetables into submission.
"Why is it this hard? They aren't diagonal at all!" Micah whined. "And why the hell are my eyes burning?"
