It was around 6 in the morning, and there was someone in the kitchen. The sound of things frying in skillets and the smell of mushrooms, peppers, and meat was slowly wafting out into the hallways of the theater. An electric griddle was also set up on the kitchen island, and a pale brunette was flipping freshly made cornbread flapjacks onto a plate, while her other hand held a small tablet with a how-to cooking video playing. She was dressed like she was right at home, a simple white, wife-beater tank top and grey sweatpants, with her bare feet resting on the tile floor. Her bare arms were covered in a latticework of silvered scar tissue, the old cuts spiraling into the vague hints of patterns over her flesh.
"Ah, fuck," she griped, realizing that there was a dark brown hair peeking out of one of the jacks.
"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, yanking the hair out and destroying half of the little pancake. She threw the hair away and checked the rest of the down-home flapjacks, and after a moment, shrugged, left the rest on the plate, and turned back to the stove where her hash was getting all nice and crispy. In just a few moments, it should all be ready to plate.
She threw the tablet into the sink and turned the water on, then flipped a fresh spoon out of a drawer, grabbed a pudding cup from the fridge, and went back to watching the stove, one foot tapping idly at the tile floor as she stirred the pudding and waited for breakfast to be ready.