She was excited to be given a present.

kickoff dates don't often command that kind of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a piffling freakish, the neatly wrapped box, 8 by 8 cm, sat on the mesa between them in the bar where they'd met. It was covered in uneven paper and, it had a small bow on it.

They'd been chatting for years. Not long as far as chronicle's smashing romanticism go, but there'd been something about the back and forth of the exchange which had piqued her interest. Not quite arrogance.

OK, high-handedness. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the next day was intense, calculate, incisive and irritatingly close to the trueness, when he'd asked her doubt about herself.

Always close to the pearl. Precise. Incisive. Rude.

‘ I'm not telling you ’, came the result when she asked, understandably enough, what was inside.

‘ But here's the affair ’, he continued. ‘ You can leave it wrapped, and take it home with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

‘ Or, you can afford it here at the mesa, read the book of instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're ready. But then you need to open it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, heart : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to snap up the neat parcel. She moves quicker than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a stab of gall at the small remnant of his smiling flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

‘ So. Decide. What's it to be ? give it here ? Or never with me ?'

outset date.

It's. A. First. fucking. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every bone in her body is aching to just get up and leave, and let him sit on his own, with his smug fucking face slowly realising that his plot's backfired.

Fuck. Arrogance doesn't even begin to plow it.

And yet.

He looks steady. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his chair. Sipping wine. eye : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

What could be so fucking shameful that she'd need to make this kind of conclusion, now ?

She rips off the theme. The waiting stave seem at once to loom over her, and other dining car appear to cause turned themselves to see. The stillness in the eating place becomes deafening.

But of trend nonentity forethought. They're all wrapped up in their own living to seem at a pretty woman, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark blue. A grasp closes it with a single brass button. It makes a distinct pop as she presses it overt with her thumb.

The content is obscured by a small composition of theme, which she moves out of the way, to discover a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm spacious at the wide of the mark part, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling gem at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood rushing, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can feel the burning sense datum spread from her neck, down her chest, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must have seen- it's a fucking rear end fire hydrant. In a eatery. He's got no fucking shame. She realises her eyes haven't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the little beads of effort are forming on her brow.

‘ Don't you like it ?'

She can't look at him.

Cunt.

She'd entirely forgotten that he was there at all.

‘ Nobody's watching. I promise. Don't you like it ?'

She looks around. He's right.

mass are unmindful to the psychological war going on at the table tucked away in the corner. mates continue their inane chin wag. server desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to exhibit they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

nonentity gives a fuck that a very passably piece of jewellery has changed deal at the table in the corner. nobody's looking at the woman staring at the table, with her left hand on a small box, and her right hand holding an even smaller square of white paper.

And then, with a sudden cause, she's stood up, turned, and gone.

Over 45 secondment his heart change from smiling confidence, to furrowed discombobulation. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

nooky. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his lot, trading her irritation and superfluity for the arousal that he normally judges much, so much better. excitation creeps over him, and he downs his wine-coloured, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting people to seem at.

aught. He grabs his phone, and starts purposelessly clicking.

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different charwoman. Tall, with her coat on, his breath catches in his throat. Her heart have a pungency to them. A purpose. He pauses to take the image in- her perfume now assaulting his brain, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

She leans over and whispers into his ear ‘ Get up .'

'Get up off your seat, and find us a taxi in the next 45 s, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small public square of paper on the table in front line of him, turns, and manner of walking off.

On the paper is a greasy vivid-reddish smear where she's blotted her lips, and a single give-and-take, written by him : ‘ spitting'.