"I ain't your gal." Mallory says calmly, her back turned towards you.

She's too old for you: 172 years old. But here she is, making two drinks this morning instead of one. And—oh, look at that—you're wearing her shirt. It suits you. Maybe she'll buy you clothing in that colour—shit. She needs to stop thinking about you.

"Go find someone younger, sugar." Please. Leave before she gets too attached.