A shaved lioness reclines inside the oversized pot, her forelegs crossed atop the rim, tail flicking lazily. Her fur is gone, revealing a patchwork of tawny skin, her regal demeanor undisturbed by her predicament. Nearby, a zebra chef, resplendent in a starched toque and pinstriped apron, rhythmically dices an onion with the precision of a surgeon, his hooves never missing a beat.
"You know, you’re not here for the ambiance. You’re the entrée, not the audience,"
The lioness stretches, her claws idly tracing circles on the pot’s rim.
"If I had a dollar for every time someone said that, I’d at least afford a shave worth keeping,"
The zebra frowns, his black-and-white face twitching as he tosses a bay leaf into the bubbling broth.
"This isn’t a spa, you know. You’re supposed to at least feign some distress. It helps with the flavor,"
The lioness gives a languid yawn, slumping deeper into the aromatic cloud.
"I find panic overrated. Besides, you could use a little more thyme and a lot less drama,"
The zebra pinches the bridge of his snout, exhaling a long, suffering sigh.
"Final requests?"
The lioness lifts her head, her eyes already heavy-lidded as the heat rises.
"Just promise me you won’t overcook. Nothing worse than a tough legacy,"
The zebra offers a silent nod, almost a gesture of respect.
"Thanks for the hot time, stripes. Wake me if dessert is tiramisu,"
Her eyes slip shut, her body sinking into the broth with a gentle sigh. The zebra, his professionalism tinged with melancholy, slides her fully under, closing the heavy lid with a resonant, metallic clunk.
The zebra stands motionless, toque askew, staring at the closed pot as if searching for meaning in the rising steam. The camera lingers on the pot’s outline, the absurdity and inevitability mingling in the stillness, leaving only the aroma of dark humor and a meal well prepared.
