"It would, I agree! But it would be a recipe for disaster, no good would come of it. I would make a fool of myself, and then where would I be?"

"Hilarious?"

"A recipe for a hilarious disaster, then."

"Aw. It'd be cute."

"Thanks," he laughs. "But I don't know how to do interpretive dance, either."

"Then how are you planning to recount the story for fascinated audiences, I ask you."

Adarin snickers. "I'll get my sister to do it."

"Is she any good at interpretive dance?"

"Nope!"

"Then what's she going to do?"

"You'd have to ask her!" says Adarin, unhelpfully.

"What makes you think she could carry out the task, then?"

Adarin shrugs. "Mostly because I don't think I can."

"Complementary sorts of skills?"

"That tends to be how it goes with us, yeah. It's convenient, actually."

"Neat."

"Yeah. I mean, there are some exceptions, obviously. Neither of us can paint and both of us can feed ourselves, for example."

"Aw, here I was imagining that one of you had mastered spoons and the other only forks and you had to feed each other depending on the course."

Adarin snorts with laughter. "That's - you're hilarious, that would be the funniest thing ever."

"And one of you could manage knives - perhaps not the same one who did forks, so you'd have to cooperate to cut up meat."

"We'd have to do the dishes together, too, one of us has mastery of sponges and the other mastery of towels."

"Oh, and one of you must drink all your beverages with a straw because only the other one can manage cups correctly."

"Only one of us can open doors, too, and the other windows. Doorknobs are confusing things, after all."

"One of you can walk normally and the other has only figured out how to hop. One of you can talk and the other can only sing. One of you can tie knots and the other has learned to use buttons. This sounds like a silly children's book."

"It does, doesn't it," laughs Adarin. "Too bad I swore off writing, otherwise I'd get rich from the book."