The day we met, I knew you thought less of me. 

I saw it in your eyes: the way those electric blues raked over my form. Up and down.  Down and up, and all over again. 

I saw it in your smile: the way you threw your head back; smirking and scoffing in utter disdain for my person. 

I saw it in your hand gestures: the way you snapped your fingers, and pointed down to the empty seat opposite you. Even the way you waved down all my suggestions. 

You thought less of me.  Like I brought nothing to the table but a pretty face, a spoilt attitude and my famous granny's trust fund. 

You never gave me a chance to wean you out of your prejudice.  You never tried.