Dear Girl Who Accidentally Spilled Her Beer,
You got on my good side quick.
You ordered your first round and politely smiled at me. I smiled back.
You ordered your second round, but not before bringing back your empties.
I made some lame joke about how you were doin’ my job for me and makin’ me look bad, which you promptly laughed at, even though it was admittedly not my best material.
You ordered your third round, but this one was a little more problematic… well, there’s no nice way of saying it.
You party fouled and dropped both beers in your hand.
No big deal, spills happen. It’s my job to clean ‘em up.
However, you insisted I let you clean it. I politely declined, citing something like “Aw, that’s sweet, but I don’t want you get your pants wet, don’t worry about it.”
As I cleaned up, you apologized. Profusely. Ad nauseum, even.
All I could do is look up and smile, reassuring you that it was far from the worst thing I’ve had to clean up in a bar.
I wasn’t just lying to you to make you feel better. It really was on the tame side.
(Now, for those of you readers who recall having seen a picture of me, I have pretty long hair. Not, like, ass-length ponytail long hair, but enough to cover my eyes when I look down.)
So when I looked up to speak to you, I had hair in my eyes and a beer-soaked rag in my hands. Naturally, I flipped my hair, to get it outta my face.
Honestly, I do it so damn much, I don’t even think about it anymore.
All you could say was, “Wow, you have really pretty hair…” I’m, believe it or not, a naturally shy guy and an even bigger blusher. So, of course, I blushed at the compliment, at which point you called me “adorable” and told me you “loved my smirk.”
Now, I don’t know what that last bit means, cuz I’ve never thought of myself as a smirker, but it was sweet of you to say, nonetheless.
In fact, as far as I’m concerned, next time you’re in there? Spill as many beers as ya like.
Cuz, for some reason, whenever I clean ‘em up, I get showered with compliments.
Hey, I’ll take it.