Weasel
She'd only done it again. Like the time she had told him that 'maybe he didn't have zero potential' wasn't bad enough, this time she had called him a weasel.
And - to be fair - he was kind of weaselly on camera; sharp nosed and ferrety, twitching like a … ferret. But she still hadn't meant it like that.
It was like she had a disease, like she couldn't control her tongue. There was no filter between her brain and her mouth - and for once she understood why people were always telling her that was a bad thing.
He had told her he was no good on camera; he had warned her wasn't photogenic; he had mentioned the dry mouth - and that was all too obvious when it came to his stumbling, stuttering, awkward recitation of the lines she had so carefully crafted. (He hadn't mentioned he couldn't read though - what the hell was he playing at with 'our rats are low'?) His relief at it being over was palpable, as he had begged to know if that was it, if he was done - he'd really put himself out there for her, really suffered for her.
And she had called him a weasel.
That wasn't what she meant. It wasn't what she felt and if she kept on being such an almighty walking foot in mouth disaster zone she was going to end up pushing him away - just as she had decided that actually, maybe she could possibly want the opposite of that.
At least he didn't seem to hold a grudge.
And she could always make it up to him later, find some way to be nicer to him. Yeah - that's what she'd do, she'd put it right later, there was always later ...