Yeonjoo

“Tell me something about yourself.” “I’d rather save the small talk.” “There’s no need to be rude, child, and believe me, I’m asking for a reason. Tell me something about yourself. Anything.”
“I’m twenty-eight . . .”
He rejected that one out of hand. “Something personal. Something . . . interior. Tell me something you love.”
I thought about it for a long few seconds, then said, “Ralph Lauren’s summer line this year. Not the spring collection, which was way too pastel, and the winter was really crappy, all bland browns and grays. But he’s got some good fabrics this summer, kind of a hot tangerine matched with dull red. Only he skirts, though. Hiscapri pants are for shit. Pockets? Who wants pockets on capri pants? What woman in her right mind puts extra fabric on her hips?”
There was a long and ringing silence. Patrick’s eyes were wide and rather frightened.
He finally cleared
his throat and said, “Anything else apart from fashion?”
“What do you want me to say? Puppies? Fluffy kittens? Babies?”
“Let’s try something simple. Your favorite food.”
I rolled my eyes. “Chocolate.” Duh .”
― Rachel Caine, Heat Stroke