Kafka sat wedged between Bella and his mother on the couch, a fork in each hand as he fed them bites of pasta, their eyes still locked on the television where the drama unfolded in a whirlwind of tears and shouting.
He squinted at the screen, his brow furrowing in confusion as the heroine wailed about yet another betrayal, the plot twisting in ways that felt all too familiar.
"Okay, I don't get it." He said, his voice cutting through the orchestral swell as he twirled another forkful for Bella. "What's so appealing about this? All these twists and turns—they're so predictable! It's the same old story over and over—cheating lover, evil mother-in-law, dramatic slap—boring as hell."
"...Why do you two like this stuff so much?"
Bella didn't even glance at him, her eyes wide with focus as she opened her mouth for the bite, chewing quickly before responding, her tone dripping with playful condescension.
