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I yank my elbow out of his grasp and twist around to grab a napkin from the bar.
"An accident. Right.” I say snidely and start to dab the front of my dress.
"Do you think I fell into you on purpose?" he scoffs as he grabs a handful of napkins, puts his beer mug down and starts to wipe his hands and arms.
“Oh, yeah all of this is just some sort of horrible coincidence. We’ve run into each other again and you just happen to spill your drink all over me?”
“It was an accident,” he repeats, his face darkening, “and I was going to be gracious and not mention our previous encounter. You can be gracious and acknowledge that you weren’t
looking where you were going.”
He drops the wet, balled up napkins on the counter and steps back. He's taller than average, more than a few inches past six feet. In my flats, I have to crane my neck to look up to see him.
“So, it’s my fault?” I ask, incredulously.
"I didn't say it was your fault. I apologized when really, it’s no one's fault. I stumbled; you were in the way," he says in a matter of fact tone. He looks me up and down again and has the nerve to grimace as he takes me in. “You obviously can’t hold your liquor, maybe you should refrain from drinking.”
I gawk at him. Who is this guy? "Are you serious?" I sputter.
"Yes. I don’t know if you remember all the…” he clears his throat and averts his eyes, “Details of our flight, you were pretty wasted.” His eyes slide to the drink in my hand, “Maybe you should stop it altogether.” He shakes his head derisively at me.
I don’t know whether to laugh or be angry. But his next action decides it for me.
"Good thing that dress is black,” he says as reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet. He plucks a few notes out and puts them on the bar counter.
“Here, that should cover the cost of replacing the dress. It's ruined." He looks me up and down again, and this time his disdainful eyes linger on my face, making a study of me.
"Oh well,” he says with a wry quirk of his lips before he turns and walks away.
I watch him, my eyes wide and glued to his broad shoulders as he moves through the restaurant at a leisurely pace. He pauses just before he steps into the hotel and his head starts to swivel. In anticipation of him looking back at me, I let the full force of my annoyance show.
But he doesn't turn around. Instead, he brushes an invisible speck of lint off his shoulder and then he disappears into the dark lobby.
I look back at the bar and see the insulting pile of cash sitting there, taunting me in his absence. I grab it, my fist turning the crisp pile of notes into a jumbled wad, and rush after him. Each step I take in my sodden shoes is fuel for my indignation. Each uncomfortable tug at my ruined dress feeds my determination to have the final word.
When I step out into the lobby, my eyes take a moment to adjust. The cavernous space is only lit by the moon that shines in from the windowless balcony that surrounds us and the flaming torches that line its walls. I scan the room, seeing people in full vacation thrall lounging on the dozens of cushioned rattan chairs that dot the space. Not finding him there, I look toward the elevator and only see a cluster of women giggling as they wait for their ride up to their rooms. My head whips to the reception desk, and I notice that, besides the two bored looking employees loitering behind, it's deserted.
With a frustrated harrumph, I make my way back into the dining room and to the table where Porsha's sitting, the menu covering her face. I pull my seat out, and at the scrape of the chairs legs on the floor, Porsha says, "For someone who's starving, you walk very slowly."
"I wasn't walking slowly, I was assaulted," I grumble as I sit down.
She lowers her menu and stares at me, her beautiful dark brown eyes wide with shock as she takes in the damp spots on the front of my dress.
"By who? What happened?" she asks, thoroughly scandalized and gallingly excited.
"Some jerk ran into me, spilled his beer all over me, insulted me and then walked away." I omit the part about the plane. I’m too mortified to tell anyone.
"Where is he? We'll have him sacked. I swear, these servers don't know anything about customer service," she says peevishly, her head whipping around the room in search of the culprit.
"He doesn't work here, Porsha. I think he's a guest. He went into the lobby when he was done with me." I dab my dress with the cloth napkin on the table, grateful for the warm evening breeze that's helping me dry off faster than I would be otherwise.
Her eyes narrow on me. "Where was he from? Is he married?" she asks, her excitement returning.
"What? How would I know? And why would I care?" I scoff at her in disbelief. "Did you not hear me say he poured a drink on me?"
"Intentionally?" she asks, dubiously.
"No, it was an accident. But he was so rude afterwards," I say.
