Rejection, Dejection

Ah, the clammy grip of utter, unmistakable rejection. I've missed you.
Last night I attended a wedding of a High School friend, and one of the bridesmaids was a california-girl who was put together perfectly.
Bingo!
I walk over, stone sober, and ask her to dance, she agrees. (By the way, I dance somewhat like the back-up dancers in the thriller video, but I'm trying not to be stiff).
We dance, it's great, we sit and talk about nothing. She has a few more drinks and heads back out on the dance floor with a rum and coke.
For unknown reasons, she flings her libation on the dance floor and covers the area with ice and broken glass.
Having a fair idea what a gentleman does in such situations, I sped to my table and liberated some napkins from my fellow guests, then proceded to help clean up the mess.
Being a macho idiot, I spread out one of the napkins, grab handfulls of ice/glass, and put them on the napkin.
I start bleeding immediately, but I'm on a roll and there's no turning back, I am fulfulling my purpose as a man.
She takes the opportunity to order a new drink, and stike up a conversation with an Armani-wearing metrosexual who knows how to dance.
I carry my now exceedingly painful napkinful of ice, glass, and hemoglobin back to my table and try to stop bleeding.
She starts a slow dance with the gimp.
After the dance, I head to her table and renew our conversation, while concealing my sacrificed hands and trying to look normal at the same time.
We talk for a bit, then "Queer Eye" pulls up a chair on the other side of her.
She picks up her chair, turns it to face him, and ignores me.
Defeat, sure and swift.
I make excuses and go back to my table.
After reporting the news to best friend, Jonathan, we (unsurprisingly) agree that her choice reveals her deep character flaws, and that I dodged a sniper's round.
I dance some more, and the evening goes on.