I treated that last part, sugarpie, like a moment of coffeehouse silence with a Beat poetry reading group.

Girl looks forward medatatively, not quite at the floor, but not up either. Her right arm is extended, her palm flat, its face to the crowd, the waiting crowd.

[Wait, beat beat beat]

Her arm drops. The audience, singular figure, snaps her fingers, a hip laudation for the cat "literati"