This Evan chick was hard to read. Sometimes, the oracle crystal divining potential of clarity or fog in her watery grove eyes, had all the answers in the reflections of fingers reaching for wine in symposium while others gleamed a monster coming up upon her shores. Maybe it was just him imagining her in a fluently breeze-riding chiton and tied to an abrasive rock hoping for a savior with just how she implored it in her eyes. Or maybe it was something else. Both cases were weighed when she wasn't paying attention, a confounded tangle of his pressed lips against the concealed even rows of pearly gates, the corner of the cafe was the focus of a meditative glare....
... and then he realized he was analyzing this a little too much. Release the Krakken!
With a sonnet in his gilded heart and an eager twitch of his ever crescendoing grin, the very essence (concealed of course.) that had, with wit and strength of will and bone, shoved the titans into Tartarus bore the focus of his blue skies down upon the fair, seated water-lily maiden. There were a few defects in the heaven of his suit being corrected and smoothed as he confided: "Americano." as if this short answer were appropriate, and then he pointed two fingers at her (since two were less rude than one.) "Note, the economical faculty of that answer: Americano, precise, and to the point." the golden gun of the king was retracted and used for the more relevant purpose of fixing the evenness of his tie.
"I'll order for us," or more accurately, he'd be paying. "What are you having?"