Is This Good Enough To Get Published?

“Milo. Don’t.” Even though we were all laughing my cheeks burned red, I KNEW this was wrong, just as i KNEW where this would land me.
” Why not? We’re all having a splendid time. Aren’t we? YOU need to loosen up.” Milo smoothed a strand of my long black hair back behind my ear. His speech was most defiantly slurred and he’s breath wreaked of unwatered wine. I glared at him although everyone around us seemed to think his behavior was perfectly hilarious.
” Come now, dear one. Don’t scowl at me like that, the gods would weep to see you twist your pretty face.” The hand he used to pat me on the cheek was moist and he looked as if seeing straight was almost as difficult as speaking. I was done, if he layed another hand on me I swore by all seeing apollo I’d smack him, how dare he touch me while he was so drunk.
” You are a fool if you think I’m going to stand here and dance for you while you’re as drunk as a sailor.” My face grew hot and I lifted my voice to make sure everyone at the banquit table could here me over the raucous sound of intoxicated men.
” And that goes for all of you! I am the sister to the Holy Pythia, Karme, Oracle of the all seeing Apollo. And beloved of the goddess Aphrodite, I will NOT dance for a group of drunken cur!”
The corners of Milo’s lips tugged down nearly instantly, and he looked- if possible- nearly sober, for he knew he had hurt me or worse yet, offended Aphrodite.
” I-I am sorry Lady Maia.” He called out for me as I stormed out of the banquite hall but I was too angry and too sick of the smell of wine to stop for him.
Once I was well inside of the womans wing of the palace I ran, my bare feet beating hard against the cold stone – I had forgotten my leather sandals in the banquite hall- until I reached the open air court yard that leads to my quarters. My body was pounding, when I reached my rooms. I’m not sure whether that’s because I was still angry or because I had run all the way here. I look at my hands one last time tracing the dull reminance of day old’s Henna with my fingers, then grab the wash bowl that has been waiting for me and rhythmically begin wiping away the coloured swerves and flower tracings that dance and weave their way from the tips of my fingers to my forearm.
Until another day then, O’Aphrodite.
I hum my little prayer as the last of the dye is washed away and smile dispite myself.