Hope - Fuck Salt.

>"Dad, what're you doing?"
>You grunt, and flip over the brown, glisteny mass.
>It hisses as it drops back into the pan.
"Cooking"
>Hope's arms knock yours as she tries to scramble up on the counter, but you turn and push her back down.
"It's hot, and spitting. Watch yourself."
>You don't mean to be this terse with her, but you had a long day at work, and the specks of oil constantly sputtering out of the pan itch and burn wherever they land.
>"What're you cooking?"
"Dinner. Listen, Hope, go set the table. Only for two, Gran'ma's not coming home tonight."
>You breathe a sigh of relief as Hope goes, and you can hear the tinkling of cutlery as she fiddles around with knives and forks.
>It's a shame that Marisa can't make it, but she's spending the week visiting her daughter.
>Your ex-wife.
>Letting out a sigh, you stir the pan again.
>Nothing complex tonight, just a mix of fried potatoes, onion, and a few small scraps of mince.
>A sort of dry stew.
>Taking a small piece on the spatula, you taste-test it.
"Bleh."
>It's bland. If tastes were colours, this would taste beige.
>Boring, samey, but solid.
>Seeing as Marisa isn't coming, you can try to make it a bit more flavoursome.
>A few crushed peppercorns, a sprinkle of chili flakes.
>You reach into the top cupboard, and rummage around, until you find it.
>The blue box looks dull in the kitchen lighting, the ponified willow pattern still odd to you, even after all these years.
>You crack it open, and stir in a spoonful into the pan.
>Pony food is too damned bland, because they can't salt anything.
>They rely on flowers and grasses, neither of which you can eat.
>It took calling in a few contacts, and skulking around in a dark alley, but you managed to get this.
>Seasalt.
>Imported from the coast of Griffonistan.

>The cubic crystals dissolve slowly, but a few moments later you're serving it all up, the two bowls filled past the brim.
"HOPE! FOOD!"
>She comes racing through, grabs the bowls out of your hands, and sprints through to the dining room.
>Excited that you've actually cooked for once, rather than Marisa's bland pony-food, take-out, or instant meals.
>She doesn't even wait for you to sit before tucking in herself, shovelling it in as if you'd given her a time limit.
>"Thiff iff wrlly gub!"
"Chew your food, then try again."
>"This is really good!"
"I'm glad. I also picked up som-"
>You stop when you realise she isn't paying attention.
>She's staring about half a foot over your head, and her pupils are mere pinpricks.
>Fuck.
>She's never reacted like this.
>You'd thought she had your digestive system.
"Hope... You okay?"
>Your words seem to snap her out of whatever wonderland she was in,
>Her face snaps to yours, but she still doesn't seem to see you.
>With a crash, she's off, green legs pumping, and she jumps through the window.
>You're getting to old for this shit.
"FUCK SALT"