Free Drinks for Good Looks

No, I wasn't at a club. No, I'm not writing about alcohol. But yes, I am writing about myself in the “good looks” department.
I drove to Rochester today to rendezvous with my Aunt Paulette and receive a piece of precious cargo from Europe—that is, my sister Rebecca. The intended time of our meeting was about 16:00, give or take fifteen, where I-90 meets I-390. My aunt was in a bit of a hurry because of a jaunt to Albany she had to take for work. She wanted to get there by nightfall. Because of various and sundry reasons, I received a call as I neared Rochester that they would be about a half an hour later than expected.
“Not a big deal,” I thought to myself. I had my Bible and notebook with me, and I can endure a long time if I have something to facilitate reading and writing (computers, actually, are optimal). So I found my way to a Wendy’s in West Henrietta, near the intersection of our two routes and parked my butt in the corner of the “dining room.” I ordered a small #6 with iced tea. Yummy. And, as I waited and read the end of I Samuel and the beginning of its sequel, I received a call from my sister announcing that they would be there around 17:00.
“Well then,” I thought to myself, “better get some more tea.” I walked up to the counter, budging in front of a muddled, indecisive family, and asked the girl if I could have a free refill of my iced tea. I was full aware of the possibility that refills may not be free, but I decided it was worth the risk of a sigh and another swipe of my debit card.
The girl looked at me for a moment, smiled, looked at her friend, looked at the managers in the corner interviewing a new applicant, and looked at the cup in my hands. The girl I spoke to continued to smile sweetly, a pretty black girl, and politely said, “Sorry. I just started working here but I don’t know ’bout no free refills.” And her friend glanced once more at the managers in the corner. She grabbed another cup from the dispenser and filled me up a fresh cup. “I’m quittin’ this job, so it don’t mean nothing to me. You’re beautiful. Here you go.”
And in my thoughts: “Was I just partner to some crime? Oh well. I’m beautiful! And I have more iced tea.” I walked away with a full cup in my hand and a smile on my face. In retrospect I probably should’ve offered to pay. It’s not good to cause others to stumble, and now the guilt of the tea (or perhaps it’s only the sandwich) is overwhelmingly heavy in my stomach.
Very rarely have I ever received a comment on my looks from anyone other than close relatives, in a serious tone. I never considered myself particularly handsome. I like everything about my face, my hair, my teeth, my build, etc., but I never considered that someone else might find those things attractive. Maybe I could be a model. Maybe I could be more vain.