"If I wasn't thinking about it before, you've sealed the envelope," Mark informs Wichita with a quick shake of his head, a laugh just waiting on his lips, even as it gets lost in all of the frenetic movement. It comes undone at last, when her elbow bumps against his, a chuckle that falls under his breath as he arches a brow in her direction. "And now you've done it. Jostled me just enough that my imagination's gone on hyperdrive. Never thought I'd be able to picture so much pink and frills and taffeta in one go."

He leans back, one more attempt at trying to see her cope with pink— he can see magenta, actually, but probably nothing powder pink— before he remarks, "Besides, black leotard and eighties leg warmers is jazz, isn't it? I was always under the impression that's why the two types of dances were formed. Some people got tired of the pointe, the pink, and the tutus."