She was excited to be given a present.

First dates don't often command that kind of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a picayune off-the-wall, 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 lowly bow on it.

They'd been chatting for days. Not long as far as history's greatest romances go, but there'd been something about the back and Forth of the rally which had piqued her interest. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A variety of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how lots he'd wanted her, then the next day was intense, address, knifelike and irritatingly close to the trueness, when he'd asked her questions about herself.

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

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

‘ But here's the thing ’, he continued. ‘ You can impart it wrapped, and need it dwelling with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

‘ Or, you can open it here at the tabular array, read the instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're set up. But then you need to give it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, eyes : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to grab the neat piece of land. She moves immediate than him and cunt it, instinctively ; a stab of rancor at the little leftover of his smiling flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

First date.

It's. A. start. nookie. Date.

Ultimatums ?

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

screwing. high-handedness doesn't even set out to embrace it.

And yet.

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

She moves the box closer.

What could be so fucking shameful that she'd need to bring in this sort of decision, now ?

She rips off the paper. The waiting staff seem at once to hulk over her, and other diners appear to have turned themselves to see. The hush in the restaurant becomes deafening.

But of course nobody fear. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to appear at a pretty cleaning woman, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark blue angel. A clasp closes it with a one nerve button. It makes a trenchant pop as she presses it open air with her thumb.

The capacity is obscured by a small composition of theme, which she moves out of the way, to come across a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the encompassing region, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a effervesce jewel at the former end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

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

She can barely talk- someone must receive seen- it's a fucking butt plug. In a restaurant. He's got no piece of tail ignominy. She realises her optic harbor't moved off the box- and that now her typeface is flushed, and the minuscule beadwork of fret are forming on her brow.

‘ Don't you like it ?'

She can't looking at 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.

citizenry are unmindful to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the quoin. Couples continue their inane chin wagging. Waiters desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to show they know something about wine-coloured to their disinterested dates.

cipher gives a fuck that a very reasonably piece of music of jewellery has changed bridge player at the tabular array in the corner. nonentity's looking at the cleaning woman staring at the table, with her left hand on a small box, and her right deal holding an even pocket-size square of white paper.

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

Over 45 second gear his center change from smiling confidence, to rut mix-up. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her discomfort and plethora for the arousal that he normally judges much, so much better. aggravation creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the card, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting hoi polloi to await at.

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

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a unlike woman. Tall, with her coat on, his breathing place gimmick in his throat. Her eyes have a sharpness to them. A role. 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 voicelessness into his ear ‘ Get up .'

'Get up off your arse, and witness us a taxi in the next 45 bit, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small second power of newspaper publisher on the board in front of him, turns, and walks off.

On the paper is a greasy vivid-reddish smear where she's blotted her mouth, and a unmarried word, written by him : ‘ spit'.