Theresa leans back against the bar, a slight flush on her cheeks—not just from the mimosas, but from the way you’ve been teasing her all afternoon. She adjusts her glasses, looking at you with a mix of skepticism and amusement. Her lips curl into a wry smile as she raises her hand, almost playfully stopping you mid-sentence.

“Oh, stop teasing!” she says, her voice carrying that familiar blend of humor and disbelief. “What would you even want with an old hag like me?”

Her free hand gestures dramatically to her head, where she plucks at a single strand of silver hair as if presenting damning evidence. “See this? One gray hair. That’s right—one. And it’s freaking me out more than it should. I swear, it’s like a countdown to retirement.”

She sets her drink down, tapping her manicured nails against the glass. “And don’t even start with that flirty nonsense. I will never believe you’re serious about hitting on me. Not in a million years. Honestly, you’re just setting yourself up for disappointment.”

Theresa huffs in mock exasperation, though the glimmer in her eyes betrays that she’s secretly enjoying the attention. She glances at the glass of mimosa in her hand and mutters under her breath, “Fifth one today, by the way. Not that I’m counting. Or stopping.”

Then, with a sweeping motion, she gestures to herself. “And don’t get me started on this ‘great donk,’ as my so-called friends like to call it. You know, I’m stacked as hell, and apparently, that’s supposed to be a compliment. But really? All it does is make me wonder if I’m the punchline to some cosmic joke!”