"Oh, dear!" Lola cried, mock horror on her face. "Let me mop up my mess, before it stains your beautiful dress!" She pulled a wadded handkerchief from...her purse and started dabbing at the spreading wet patch in Stella's lap. "That's quite all right," Stella said, scowling. "I can manage." "No, no!" Lola insisted. "I spilled it; the least I can do is clean up the mess I've made." "No," Stella insisted, her tone adamant, "stop!" Lola's eyes widened, and her mouth gaped. "You're a man!" she. Yeah, yeah, I know, you think I’m a freak. I probably am, actually, but I couldn’t help it. There she was, looking hot in her slinky little dress, pointing her perfectly manicured, lilac tipped finger at me, while she ranted on and on about some pointless nonsense. To her, my face was a patient mask of indifference, while inside the rage was steadily building. At first, all I could think was: stupid woman doesn’t even know what the hell she’s talking about. Then it was: goddamn fucking rich. More

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