[ She - dear Gods, why would any woman dress like that, what can it possibly accomplish? - stumbles backwards, hitting first the bar stool, then the counter. Her beer splashes all over her atrocious clothes and instead of glaring at him like that, she ought to thank him for the opportunity to change into something that doesn't make her look like some confused teenager, still trying to discover herself. If she owns any such items, that is. He's about to step back, leave her to his unvoiced questions (approachable doesn't mean he has to care and going by her looks, she certainly wouldn't ever vote for him in any case), when she moves, suddenly and way too fast.
He barely manages to raise his forearm in an instinctively defensive manner before he's sloshed with beer. Right in the face, too. For a few seconds, all he can taste and breathe is beer, sour and ugly and he snaps his mouth shut to avoid swallowing any more of it, disgusting, disgusting...
Wiping his hand across his face, clearing his eyesight first and foremost, the bitter smell leaving all his senses over-wrought, he blinks her back into focus, beer slipping from his eyelashes, from the tip of his nose. Drip, drip, drip. Right... onto... his shoes... He doesn't truly register the crowd around them anymore; his brain more or less filters out everything, from the music to the grinding bodies to voices and talk and the smell of sweat. Instead, he zeroes in on her - on how she stands there with her empty glass. Looking so fucking accomplished.
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He barely manages to raise his forearm in an instinctively defensive manner before he's sloshed with beer. Right in the face, too. For a few seconds, all he can taste and breathe is beer, sour and ugly and he snaps his mouth shut to avoid swallowing any more of it, disgusting, disgusting...
Wiping his hand across his face, clearing his eyesight first and foremost, the bitter smell leaving all his senses over-wrought, he blinks her back into focus, beer slipping from his eyelashes, from the tip of his nose. Drip, drip, drip. Right... onto... his shoes... He doesn't truly register the crowd around them anymore; his brain more or less filters out everything, from the music to the grinding bodies to voices and talk and the smell of sweat. Instead, he zeroes in on her - on how she stands there with her empty glass. Looking so fucking accomplished.
His eyes narrow. ]