Skeeter sighed and leaned back, letting go of the table. She stared at the television. “I’m not Piggy, Rowlf," she said finally, avoiding his stare.
“Do you base that assessment on the fact that, unlike her, you’re independent, condescending, or desperate for attention?" he sniped back (in his usual laid-back voice, of course). “It’s the pot calling the kettle ‘black’, isn’t it?" He shook his head. “I don’t take that stuff from her and I won’t take it from you, either, Skeets," he added, his voice growing more tense by the sentence. “I’m not zero-percent fat. I KNOW that. I’m not into playing GOLF, much less that suicidal ‘skateboarding’ fad that’ll get everyone killed in a year. I’ve been one-hundred percent honest with you, Skeets.” He sighed, nodding to the bartender for another round. “I just wish you’d give me the same courtesy," he said sadly.