Americano. Was that code, or a label for himself -- he did seem to exemplify the qualities of 'the American dream.' Young, quick, successful, ambitious. Not that she knew of his success or ambition, but c'mon. He was wearing a suit, and even she knew when a piece of clothing was off the rack or tailor-specified. He was the latter. Every single aspect of him seemed hand-made, detailed with serious specification. As flippant as he was with his comments, his witty tête à tête, it seemed very ... careful. And she, she didn't even know what Americano meant. "Duly noted!" Oh, but she could pretend. As best as she could.
Until, of course, she had to order for herself. "Oh, well." A small shift, lips pursing just slightly as her hands settled on the table, fingers fanning out. "I'll have a grande mocha espresso half-calf with no foam and a sugardaddy on the rocks." This delivered with a straight face that de Niro would have applauded, with a Kansas accent to boot.
The corner of her lip twitched, however, giving away the jig, and rather than wait and see what the hell she'd asked for, she found her shoulders slumping and a half-deflated, "or maybe just iced tea," offered in exchange. Fingertips drummed the tables momentarily, before she curled them up and away to avoid the temptation.
"You mentioned cake ...?" Very important topic, you see. Cake trumped Santa, marriage, and coffee. Always.