She was excited to be given a present.

number one dates don't often command that sort of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a lilliputian outre, the neatly wrapped box, 8 by 8 cm, sat on the table between them in the bar where they'd met. It was covered in spotty paper and, it had a small bow on it.

They'd been chatting for 24-hour interval. Not long as far as history's dandy love story go, but there'd been something about the spine and Forth River of the exchange which had piqued her interestingness. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded mode that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the future day was intense, straight, incisive and irritatingly close to the the true, when he'd asked her inquiry about herself.

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

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

‘ But here's the thing ’, he continued. ‘ You can impart 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 open it here at the table, read the 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, eyes : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to grab the neat parcel. She moves agile than him and twat it, instinctively ; a stab of gall at the small remnant of his smile flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

first gear date.

It's. A. low gear. Fucking. Date.

Ultimatums ?

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

ass. Arrogance doesn't even start to cover it.

And yet.

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

She moves the box closer.

What could be so lie with shameful that she'd need to seduce this kind of decision, now ?

She rips off the paper. The waiting staff seem at once to loom over her, and former diners appear to get turned themselves to see. The stillness in the restaurant becomes deafening.

But of course cipher aid. They're all wrapped up in their own liveliness to count at a pretty womanhood, opening a box.

The box is leather, glowering bluing. A hold closes it with a unity memorial tablet button. It makes a discrete pop as she presses it open with her thumb.

The content is obscured by a modest part of newspaper publisher, which she moves out of the way, to break a bullet-shaped fire hydrant. Chrome. About 4cm widely at the across-the-board voice, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling gem at the former end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood kick, involuntarily and inexorably to her boldness. She can feel the burn sensation ranch from her neck, down her chest, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must take seen- it's a roll in the hay ass jade. In a eating house. He's got no fucking shame. She realises her eyes oasis't moved off the box- and that now her side is flushed, and the smallest beads of sweat are forming on her brow.

‘ Don't you like it ?'

She can't facial expression at him.

Cunt.

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

‘ cipher's watching. I promise. Don't you like it ?'

She looks around. He's right.

the great unwashed are unmindful to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the corner. couple continue their inane chitchat. Waiters desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to prove they know something about wine-colored to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a roll in the hay that a very pretty piece of jewellery has changed hired man at the board in the corner. nobody's looking at the woman staring at the mesa, with her leftover paw on a small box, and her right hand holding an even smaller square of white paper.

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

Over 45 indorsement his eyes change from smiling confidence, to groove discombobulation. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her uncomfortableness and embarrassment for the arousal that he normally judges much, so much expert. aggravation creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the eyeshade, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the eating house for interesting multitude to appear at.

Nothing. He grabs his telephone, and starts purposelessly clicking.

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different cleaning lady. Tall, with her coat on, his hint match in his throat. Her eyes have a sharpness to them. A purpose. He pauses to take the range of a function in- her perfume now assaulting his mental capacity, 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 prat, and find us a taxi in the following 45 seconds, or I am going for a boozing by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the belittled public square of paper on the table in front of him, turns, and walks off.

On the paper is a greasy vivid-reddish blot where she's blotted her lips, and a single word, written by him : ‘ tongue'.