Kizi didn't really do writing. She hadn't yet found her creative outlet of choice, or any particularly inspiring muses. Most of her hobbies were academic, after all. Not interesting to discuss at all.
There was a lull in the conversation, and Kizi was, while chewing another mouthful of her almost-finished risotto, trying to think of a good way of filling the gap, without just asking another rather generic question about interests. She hated to admit it, but that conversation pathway wasn't really working for her. It was a noble effort, but no common ground had been found that involved Kizi, and she didn't want to butt in.
She finished another oyster - no, they were mussels, not oysters, she remembered - trying in vain to politely conceal the inevitable slurping sound.
She was saved from having to say something clever or productive by her phone ringing. Muttering her apologies, she placed her plate down - back on her table - and answered. Her mom needed some help at home.
"Sorry, guys," she said, returning to her two classmates, "but I gotta run. Family calls." With a friendly smile, she left the two, taking her nearly-finished plate over to the counter, apologising for not finishing it all and leaving a healthy tip.
((Kiziah continued in The Blood Witch