‎oh my god is all she could say. ‎ ‎wine, generational wealth and museums. the kind that could pull franz kafka. that kind of person — she's not exaggerating that those are the first things that popped in her mind the second she spilt her wine on the vicuña you were wearing in the middle of an important event in the midst of her hurry with her errands. ‎ ‎she couldn't help but feel bad, especially when the stench of freshly printed cash, wooden fragrant notes, and a touch of jo malone is all over you. but second of all, she panicked, especially when the other staffs come rushing with deer caught in headlights look in their eyes, apologizing like they're ready to kneel down as they tries to assist you with that ugly stain. ‎ ‎so here she is, gliding about the venue with left frontal lobe sideburns, grabbing essentials, tissues, etcetera to mend the damage almost frantically, just to fix the impression she'd done to the coat of the seemingly important person, "god— sorry, sorry." she fusses about, trying to remove the stain but was also afraid to touch it and make it worse.