Savour your victory, Sir. In this moment, you have certainly outwitted me. You had me at the disadvantage when you struck. Though you knew it, it did not slow your attack, nor did it diminish your victor’s ardour. Very well done, Sir.
For you could not have conquered so feasibly were we on an equal stance. I do not prop up my intellect, do not misunderstand my confidence. I merely guide you back to the memory of our encounter. So that you might acknowledge that I was hindered, not by lack of wit, but by manners expected. Were I to throw away said hindrance, I am certain that I could defeat you.
For you do not desire a challenge, and you prefer an already weakened opponent. And I enjoy a good whipping, if not in actual deed, but in the language of proper conversation.
I find you vulgar, Sir.
And not because I am female and require a gentler approach.
You lack finesse, the finer leanings for encounters. You misunderstand subtlety. Witty little lies and innuendo elude you. Instead, you are like a bull, careless and rash, animal in your dealings. You blunder, head first, stumbling in your own path, incapable of seeing the mess you create.
It offends me, Sir, even if it does not directly revolt me. For I am used to more consideration, and your inelegance is discourteous. For you did not think to learn otherwise in order to be on surer feet.
I see you are unhappy. Maybe a little furious. Shame. For I could teach you the finer art of etiquette. I could make you cleaner and more attractive, even as a forethought.
No, alas. I like you no better than men’s unmentionables. Therefore I care not for your education.
Stand back, Sir. You stuff of dreams forgotten.
Life made a spectacle of itself, and I was unprepared. Though I may laugh gayly, with obvious merriment, I am not amused. In truth, it can be said that I possess no sense of humour.
No, I mock you not, sir. I speak only facts that you do not wish to pry from me. For you seek only a brief acquaintance. A dalliance. An affaire. A momentary nothing.
But I must ask you to check yourself, sir. Check the reasons that you have chosen to approach me and place your noble, if slightly intoxicated self at my side. For I am not one of those other chicks you see out there. I am no debutante, though my dress is of the finest white silk and lace.
I am without whimsy, I am without mercy, and I will pity you once you are gone from my side. But go you must. I do not want you here.
Go you must, you tiresome creature.
You are not really asking for my opinion, are you?
You want words of comfort. For me to stroke your ego gently, like a cat’s coat. For me to flatter you, pump up your outer skin, until you are bloated like a fat peacock.
I decline, Sir.
Such tender lies are beyond me. For you do not need it. You only seek to fill yourself with an importance that, though you may well deserve, is unnecessary and superficial.
I decline, Sir. Sue me.
I suppose you think I need rescuing. That I am like a bird in a cage, in need of assistance. Let me disabuse you.
I am not so fragile. I am not inclined to dramatics or hysterics, like some females I know. I do not bemoan my existence, falling to my knees to beggar myself before the Almighty, wailing “Why me?” like a confused samaritan. My tendencies are not such.
Instead, I am determined. I am cold and I am heartless. What you feel is pity, and I feel no particular emotions about your condescension.
Please, refrain. Direct your energies and affaires of a more delicate nature to a more worthy corner. I do not sympathise, for indeed I cannot.
Thank you, sir, for your consideration. I am most heartened.