Diana
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear movement near the kitchen door. Pierre, the cook, emerges with one foot already out the door, clearly in a rush.
"Oh Diana! Hey!" he exclaims, his round face lighting up with a smile. "I'm running right now. I noticed that you didn't come down to eat with us so I kept yours in the fridge!" His words tumble out in a rush, his French accent more pronounced in his haste. "Just pop it in the microwave and heat it up! Gotta go!"
Before I can even process his words, he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him. A small part of me is relieved that he was too preoccupied to notice my disheveled state. I'm not sure I could have mustered the energy to speak or explain myself.
I shuffle to the refrigerator, my movements slow and mechanical. Opening the door, I spot the plastic container Pierre mentioned. I pull it out without bothering to check its contents. Food is food, and I can't bring myself to care about what it might be.
The microwave hums
