( what is the point of this story? there's a faint smile, almost strained with embarrassment, as she looks up at him--her hands press down hard on either end of the knife, slicing it through the cheese, cutting thick chunks of it that will likely take a long time to melt. on the other hand, it means this sandwich is likely to be more delicious than a few strips of plastic-made cheese melted along sorry wilted bread; she's sparing no expense of her not-money in this restaurant that she doesn't own to give him a comforting experience, of course.

with a puff of breath, she finally wills the knife down once she's gotten a good pile of cheese for one sandwich, at least. if he wants two, then she'll have to come back to it all.

but then--holding up a buttered slice of bread in either hand, she whips around, this way and that, looking for...a pan, which she's pretty sure wasn't on the stove before, but it's not much of a problem. moving over to it instead, she sets the bread down on the counter, twisting the knob to immediately turn the heat up to high on the burner with the pan. )

For her father? Oh, well... ( that's an interesting thing to say. it's something she never even considered, made obvious by the way she pauses in her movement. ) No, she was very little, and it's hard for her to know if the story she got is the real story, or not.

( impatient, she flops one of the slices of bread down on the pan, moving so that she can bring her handful of cheese slices over to start lining and piling them up on the bread. )

...This is a terrible story, isn't it? And then a dragon crashed in, and everything became fire. The end!

( she's grinning as she says it, neatly tucking little cheese pieces around each other like some kind of geometric puzzle. )