"When I'm not cooking, I remind myself of who I am without a drink, and...." Randolph gazed at me, his dark eyes haunted. "I miss being a chef. I even dreamed about it last night."
"I'm sorry." I bowed my head, the weight of his sorrow almost too much.
"It's... I understand why you won't let me near the food again. But isn't it funny how I dreamed about cooking instead of the nightmares on this ship?"
I crossed to the cupboards for a mixing bowl and a pan. "Your opinions about what's funny are different than mine, I think."
He tipped his head back and chuckled, then gazed down at his feet, his laugh petering out. "Great boogly bags, will you look at what I did?"
I glanced down, and what I was seeing had to roll through tired brain sludge before I comprehended. He wore two left shoes, one beige and one black tip pointing in the same direction.
"Eh." I waved my hand dismissively. "At least you matched the first letter of the colors. That's close enough."