A slight disinclination turns into a distinct loathing when an individual spills the entirety of her beer on me within seconds of salutations. Accident or no, a sopping wet Morgan does not an affable Morgan make.
Thought process: "Flirt flirt smile giggle hold tum in avoid unfortunate lighting angles COLD. WET. COLDER. WETTER. WHY, dear god, WHY. That. Bitch."
Response: stand up slowly. Bite lip to keep from screaming obscenities. Afix withering glare. "We were just leaving anyway." Slam salty dog. Shroud secret glee for perfect excuse to be a complete bitch and congratulate self for taking the middle road. Strut out as though I'm not soaked in fucking Bitburger from the neck down.
(The boy made it better by making fun of her outfit, offering to do my laundry, and fetching peach cobbler ice cream at 1am. In completely unrelated news, I'm a shamelessly spoiled brat.)