As far as Miles was concerned, the table would have been rightfully hers had she managed to claim a seat before himself, but she hadn't bothered, probably for fear of breaking one of her perfectly manicured nails. He had beaten her to it, fair and square, and therefore it was downright illogical of her to snap at him for it and stake her claim when it was too late. This was not an issue which would have caused him much concern on any other day, but today was different, and he felt himself become irrationally angry with this stupid woman and her stupid manicured nails and her stupid, foul smelling coffee. Luckily for both of them, and perhaps for the surrounding punters, he was more than able to control his temper in tense situations. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she had her name written on 'her' table, but had he done so he would have felt like he had placed himself in the position of the aggressor. Besides, it was a puerile, childish thing to say, and he was intelligent enough to do better than that.
"You say it's your table," he remarked, leaning back in his seat and placing his hands behind his head. His tone was as casual as if this were merely a discussion about the weather, and he continued to stare determinedly past her, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of thinking that he actually gave a damn about her or her predicament, "but I'm the one sitting at it, which makes it mine, albeit for a short period of time, of course."