She was the center of attention.
Dara had found the common pot — the sad, underfunded, unambitious pot that was supposed to feed the common soldiers — and had apparently taken it over. She stood behind the fire, her brown dress tight on her fucked-out body, a ladle in her hand, serving food to a line of grateful, hungry men who were looking at her with the particular, devoted, slightly-in-love expression of men who had just eaten something that was dramatically better than what they had expected.
"This food is very good!" one said, his mouth full, his eyes wide.
"You are the best cook, Dara!" another said.
"You are our savior!" a third added, holding his bowl up like a trophy.
Dara chuckled.
The warm, pleased, slightly-flustered chuckle of a woman who was being praised for something she had learned from Viktor and was now receiving credit for.
"Oh, come on," she said, waving her ladle. "Aren't you overselling yourselves?"
She was different.
