She was confused about the macaroons, and told him so.
“These are not macaroons.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, pausing as he made to sit down.
“You said you were giving me macaroons, and these are most definitely not macaroons. I can tell there aren’t any egg whites in those.”
He looked down at the plate he’d set down on his small kitchen table. His cookies certainly looked good enough to eat, and wasn’t that the only thing that mattered?
He voiced as such, and her eyes went rolling to the ceiling.
“Charles, you can’t just throw around words without using their proper definition. Then anarchy would descend, wouldn’t it?”
“They’re only cookies though.”
“What’s next? Pesto? Risotto? Is the entire culinary and baking community to be thrown to the wind now that Trump is president? Where does it end?”
She looked down, just realizing that she’d jumped to her feet and was bearing down on Charles like an indignant chicken.
“I’m… going to go.”
“Okay,” he answered, looking shell-shocked. “Do you want a macaroon for the road?”
She sighed, deflating.
“Sure Charles, I’ll take a macaroon.”