Themysciran Cuisine

Dinner turns out to be some kind of quail that only lives on Paradise Island, slow-cooked until it’s so tender it falls off the bone, flavored with exotic spices and served on a bed of some sort of couscous. Diana turns out to be as good a cook as she is at seemingly everything else.

“Definitely leagues above the Watchtower cafeteria,” you joke.

She nods. “My mother taught me this recipe. She learned it from the Goddess Artemis.” She says it like it’s the most normal thing ever.

“You and I live very different lives,” you say shaking your head.

She gives a slight shrug. “Speaking of the Watchtower, did the contractor get all your little spy cameras in place while we were off planet?” She tries to make that sound totally normal too, but doesn’t quite pull it off.

“They did. Helluva job too; even knowing where they are, I can't spot them.” That's mostly true. You had the installers put a few cameras where they would be just barely noticeable to someone with superior vision; the idea being if Diana finds those and avoids them, she'll only make herself more exposed to the ones that are completely invisible.

Trying to steer the conversation into less treacherous waters, you ask questions about her life on Paradise Island, a topic she seems comfortable discussing. You listen to several stories that would be more at home in a book of Greek Myths. You nod in wonder (no pun intended) and ask the occasional question - mostly variations on How Did That Make You Feel? Diana begins to loosen up ever so slightly as the meal progresses, her tone gradually shifting from detached reporter to subjective participant.

This has always been your dating superpower - actually listening to and engaging genuinely with women when they talk about themselves. Based on the reaction on Diana's face, it’s the last thing she expected.

Dessert is a mango and yoghurt concoction, also delicious. “Another recipe handed down from the gods?" you ask with a grin.

She smiles fondly. "After a fashion. Etta Candy, Goddess of Desserts."

"Etta Candy? No offense but she sounds more like the Goddess of Strippers."

And the tough Warrior Princess Ambassador Superhero lets out a stream of giggles that would make a tween girl roll her eyes. “Now that would be quite the sight. I think she would – what’s the saying?” Diana grins rather wickedly, “She’d crush it.”

Your brain thinks of several different responses, but they all seem like they’d break this more relaxed mood, so for once you shut up and eat.

Once dessert plates have been cleared, Diana walks over to stand in front of you. "I also owe you a dance. I am prepared to do so now if you would like?"

You had planned on saving that for your next “date” to drag things out over as many weeks as possible. But with the beautiful Amazon standing so close in front of you, you find yourself unable to say No. Or much else for that matter.

You follow your hostess into the living room. You sit in a comfy armchair while she walks over to the stereo and switches to a different playlist. You had idly wondered what sort of music she would choose. Something from her homeland? Or some type of jazz? Abba?