[ there is, of course, the initial tug -- startled and spooked; every bit like a jackrabbit trying to bound instantly away. there are things about spike that still leave her hella disquieted and while his touch is certainly not altogether welcome, it hasn't yet broached welcome either. ]

My point is -- in a roundabout kind of way -- you're doubly disqualified from commenting on my outfits. Waitressy or not. Colourful or not. Because you had velveteen and cravats and now you look like...like...[ she stammers as she loses verbal control at just around the same point she resigns her hand to his care. ]