It's only eight, right?
Tonight in the basement of the Harvard Book Store where the part of the HVAC which replaced the original location of mysteries and crime makes enough industrial noise for me to wear earplugs while browsing, I gestured a choice of directions at a T-junction of shelves to a woman laden with bags in both hands who responded in an immediate tone of cheerful accusation, "You're half a man," and then before I could say anything and see which way she reacted, "Half and half. Cream. I'm just kidding," on which she turned around and left the way she came. Happy Saturday before Christmas?

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I have no reason to believe it crossed her mind.
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It sounds to me a bit as though her mouth opened without her mind behind it, and kept going a bit while she tried mending its initial offering; then she left. But it had occurred to me as well, her remarks could've landed badly (rather than a bit bafflingly) in several distinct directions.
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I couldn't tell if the interaction was an insult when it started. Then it seemed not to have been meant as one, but I couldn't tell what it had been meant as, and you may be right that it makes the most sense without intention.