The house is a happy carriage-like corridor of commuters mingling around gate-fold tables laden with bottles and cake. The bottles are black with golden labels. The cake is upside down. Molecules bound together with a plasma of jam.
Petrified orange slices in jelly.
Dave, irrepressible party-goer, bites his cake and says isn't it nice? Light and moist.
That kind of thing, like you do when you eat cake in public.
You can't just eat it. You feel obliged to provide some kind of cake commentary/cake review or else you just aren't being polite in cake eating circles.
But Dave pulls a face. Sticks a finger – his finger of course, not just any old finger, into his mouth. There are other bits in there that don't feel like they belong in a cake.
Tracy watches him spilling bits and pieces of cake molecules down his finger. His cake speech isn't worth a crumb now and he knows it.
He gets off at the next stop. His reputation and tooth in ruins.