tip, measuring his expression. I wondered if he understood what I was saying.
"Usually you're in a better mood when your eyes are so light," I commented, trying to distract him from whatever thought had left him frowning and somber.
He stared at me, confused. "What?" v"You're always crabbier when your eyes are black—I expect it then," I went on. "I have a theory about that."
His eyes narrowed, his crooked smile sneered. "More theories?"
"Mm-hmm." I chewed on a small bite of fiddle, trying to look indifferent.
"I hope you were more creative this time... or are you still stealing from comic books?" He crooked smile was mocking; his eyes were still tight.
"Well, no, I didn't get it from a comic book, but I didn't come up with it on my own, either," I confessed.
"And?" he prompted.
But then the waitress strode around the partition with my food. I realized we'd been unconsciously leaning toward each other across the table, because we both straightened up, dusted ourselves off, and coughed into our fists as she approached. She set the dish in front of me—it looked pretty good—and turned quickly to Fredward.
"Did you change your mind?" she asked. "Isn't there anything I can get you?" I may have been imagining the double meaning in her words.
"No, thank you, but some more soda would be... divine." He gestured with a long white hand to the empty cups in front of me.
"Sure." She removed the empty glasses and walked away.

172

Chapter 8

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