(SE) an open book with a torn out page

"It's a nice idea, but I doubt it," Isla admits with a small smile as they approach the Temple. "There is a reason we are made like this, after all. If we find it difficult, that's our failing, not the Voice's." And as time goes on, it's true that it's getting less difficult to forget the taste of food and drink - how it's meant to taste, anyway - and earthly pleasure has become more of a mental thing. A great conversation, being with someone you care for, a good book, honing one's craft and so on. Likely the way her goddess meant for it to be. Stepping in through the temple doors, Isla makes a beeline for the infirmary. "Oh, I don't know. Some fetching scrubs might do the job, but I have a feeling that any we try to put on you will show your midriff off to the world. And then we've got a different problem." Snickering, she holds the infirmary door open for Jata to go in first. "Are you sure I can't? We're at a hospital - if you were ever going to be a dart board, here is probably the safest place. I suppose, though, you'll do in what you're wearing. If only because the scrubs might scare patients more." She winks. ISLA when it's just the two of us, only the two of us, I could die