mes compliments,

he approached her, bug eyes protruding from thick frames. asking her to strike up a conversation she didn’t want. he gave her a compliment. she refused. and, with bug eyes turning quickly from lust to spite, he demanded what sort of person rejects a compliment? - she was a wicked one.

she, thoughout this, was without answer; this she told him in a foreign tongue.

in the forefront of her mind, however, many answers desired a leap to her mouth, though she bit the inside of her cheek, thinking it no use to provoke a bug-eyed strange.

he continued, though. on and on and on. in foreign tongue: she, the temptress, the snubber of compliments, should be shamed. he, a kind stranger, should punish her cruelty.

they separated. she detaching herself with the speed in which they met.

but

a lingering, acute sensation of penetrating bug eyes followed on her tour. in a calculated unison, around corners and isles, out doors, down blocks, into the night, fifteen-or-so paces behind in a silent menacing stare; she could feel the unblinking bug-eyes on her back.

but

she, being the faster one, climbed up the hill in wide strides. away away away.

wondering, only, what kind of a person rejects a compliment?