09/18/2025
Rod put his phone down and walked to the water station.
One of those vintage chrome-and-glass setups at the end of the counter—because hydration, like everything else now, is a lifestyle. She was already there, yammering at the barista—heels planted, hands waving in some kind of influencer semaphore. Without looking, she reached dramatically toward the spigot.
He stepped around her and calmly took the last clean glass.
Didn’t look. Didn’t ask.
Just poured.
To her, it was an act of war.
"Excuse me," she snapped, in a voice sharp enough to etch glass. "I was about to use that."
Rod took a sip, eyes scanning past her, as if listening in on a more interesting conversation in a better café.
"I can pour you one," he offered, polite as paint. "But it’ll come with a tip about managing expectations."
She blinked. Thrown. Then rearmed.
"You always cut in front of women? Or just the ones you think won’t bite back?"
Now he looked at her. Slowly. The kind of look you give a barking dog behind a fence—not angry, just curious what it thinks it’s guarding.
"Depends," he said. "Some people look like they’re about to hydrate. Others just… perform it."
That did it.
Her eyes narrowed into twin laser beams—Medusa, if she worked in HR and subscribed to Goop.
"You seriously think you’re God’s gift to women, don’t you?"
He tilted his head, taking her in—shoulder pads, Botox, five grand of designer armor wrapped around a personality that had never once bought its own drink.
"No," he said, sipping again. "I don’t."
She opened her mouth, but he raised a finger—not to silence, just to keep rhythm.
"Women," he said, "are God’s gift to me. And believe me, I wake up grateful every damn day."
Her mouth curled.
"That’s not charming," she sneered. "That’s just pathetic. And desperate."
He nodded, almost impressed.
"Spoken like someone who’s never been the gift. Only the wrapping. And gets thrown out just as fast."
She gasped—part outrage, part rehearsed. The kind of reaction that worked on a maître d’ with no spine and something to prove.
"You are rude. You know that, as***le? Absolutely fu***ng rude."
Rod set the glass down gently, like a mic.
"No. I'm just hydrated and honest. Which if you had your way would be a felony."
She turned in a flurry of overpriced perfume and undercooked self-awareness, marching back to her table like she’d just won something. Everyone watching knew otherwise.
He returned to his seat. Calm. Dry. Untouched.
The barista passed by, shaking his head.
He raised his glass.
"To clarity," he muttered. Then took a long, clean swig.
And peace.
