Prose Log Sample: Some days, Nanako will make him a sort of junior bento. There are carrot slices with smiles cut into them, a folded omelet. Cucumber sticks that form a tiny house. Puffy clouds of rice. He eats it all without really tasting it, then orders a sandwich, or maybe just has another cup of coffee and has someone grab him something later. A cop’s life is full of sandwiches. Hot or cold, greasy or relatively healthy— the quickest way to fit a meal in. They come in foil wrappers and waxed paper and those white styrofoam containers that are technically forbidden by the Department due to environmental guidelines. Dojima glances down at his desktop, imagines them all passing, like a parade. A parade of days. A calendar of lunches eaten at his desk. Dinners, too, some days. Now, more than before.
Today, there’s no bento. No smiling carrots, no little nori-bear lumbering up an omelet hill towards his cucumber house. Today Dojima sits at his desk and checks over Adachi’s reports while he waits for his sandwich. He wonders if it had been stupid to say “surprise me”, when Adachi had asked what he wanted. Asked in that long-suffering way of his, like he hadn’t really wanted to go to June’s.
He's seen how Adachi eats. Like a starving man. Not the kind of man who would appreciate smiley faces carved into his food. That's the privilege of fatherhood.
Whatever it is, Dojima thinks, it had better not have any goddamn sprouts on it.
Re: Ryotaro Dojima . Persona 4 . Reserved
Prose Log Sample:
Some days, Nanako will make him a sort of junior bento. There are carrot slices with smiles cut into them, a folded omelet. Cucumber sticks that form a tiny house. Puffy clouds of rice. He eats it all without really tasting it, then orders a sandwich, or maybe just has another cup of coffee and has someone grab him something later.
A cop’s life is full of sandwiches. Hot or cold, greasy or relatively healthy— the quickest way to fit a meal in. They come in foil wrappers and waxed paper and those white styrofoam containers that are technically forbidden by the Department due to environmental guidelines. Dojima glances down at his desktop, imagines them all passing, like a parade. A parade of days. A calendar of lunches eaten at his desk. Dinners, too, some days. Now, more than before.
Today, there’s no bento. No smiling carrots, no little nori-bear lumbering up an omelet hill towards his cucumber house. Today Dojima sits at his desk and checks over Adachi’s reports while he waits for his sandwich. He wonders if it had been stupid to say “surprise me”, when Adachi had asked what he wanted. Asked in that long-suffering way of his, like he hadn’t really wanted to go to June’s.
He's seen how Adachi eats. Like a starving man. Not the kind of man who would appreciate smiley faces carved into his food. That's the privilege of fatherhood.
Whatever it is, Dojima thinks, it had better not have any goddamn sprouts on it.