Setting aside the caramel-coated punchline, Evan gave her coffee a tentative sip. She didn't know what she'd expected, but whatever it was, it was odd. Some sort of milky chocolatety abortion, but she'd drink it with a smile, because he'd ordered it. She wasn't going to be rude, no sirree. That's just not how you did it in Kansas: someone gave you sour lemonade, you drank the pitcher. They were a bunch of slow-talking Ghandi's.
He had an interesting way of going about things, something she was taking notice of more and more. There was no action he'd take without offering supplemental reasoning, even if the offered explanation was absurd. Every single detail he held himself accountable for. Almost like he was narrating his own life. Not that she minded. He had a nice voice. Familiar-sounding. Was he on the radio, or something? She almost asked, but no ... he had to touch his cake like he knew it in a biblical sense. The best way to rid oneself of temptation is to yield to it. Well wasn't that the interesting philosophy. "I'll keep that in mind--"
Oh. Oh dear. Lifting a hand to keep a volley of giggles from escaping, Evan's other hand lifted to point at his face. A one-finger point (she just didn't know any better.) "Ah, you ..." Wiping the smile from her face and dropping her hand, fingers drummed the table as she snickered, "You have a little something ..." But rather than leave him alone in his icing shame, the good-natured nymph dragged her once-pointing finger through her own icing, intentionally blacking out a front tooth. "About right there." Mm. Good icing. She cleaned her finger with a quick lick made less scandalous by giving him her profile... which made sense for some reason. "Mmm. You were right. That frosting was beggin' for it."