He sat looking glum. His skin overtanned; frankly, it was bright orange. His pale blue slacks complemented it perfectly. I want to recall a voluptuous frilly-fronted, white shirt, but that’s my memory making it up. It would have been stylish, expensive, although opened by one button too many in order to reveal the orange hue of his chest.
My reaction was dictated by the choices I’d been shown. I suppose I could have just stood and waited. Instead, I believe I scrolled through the possibilities. Rattigan’s Hester? Vivien Leigh’s Scarlet O’ Hara? Shakespeare’s Kate? What emerged might have been a collage of all three.
After I threw the glass, I think he may have commented on my crass performance. I don’t think we spoke for several months after that.