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 little 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 pocket-sized bow on it.

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

OK, arrogance. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how a good deal he'd wanted her, then the next day was intense, direct, incisive and irritatingly close to the accuracy, when he'd asked her head about herself.

Always close to the pearl. 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 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 unfold it here at the board, 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, optic : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to grab the neat piece of land. She moves quicker than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a twinge of resentment at the small remnant of his smile flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

number 1 date.

It's. A. First. Fucking. Date.

Ultimatums ?

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

fuck. hauteur doesn't even begin to get across it.

And yet.

He looks chill out. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his hot seat. Sipping wine. optic : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

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

She rips off the paper. The waiting staff seem at once to brood over her, and former diners appear to have turned themselves to see. The still in the eating house becomes deafening.

But of course nobody cares. They're all wrapped up in their own life-time to seem at a fairly woman, opening a box.

The box is leather, saturnine blue angel. A clutch closes it with a 1 brass clitoris. It makes a decided pop as she presses it open with her thumb.

The message is obscured by a minuscule piece of paper, which she moves out of the way, to reveal a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the widest piece, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling jewel at the early end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

pedigree spate, involuntarily and inexorably to her case. She can feel the burning sensation spread from her neck, down her bureau, through her gut and stake up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must let seen- it's a piece of tail posterior fireplug. In a restaurant. He's got no fucking shame. She realises her centre haven't moved off the box- and that now her aspect is flushed, and the smallest pearl of lather are forming on her brow.

‘ Don't you like it ?'

She can't flavor 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.

masses are unmindful to the psychological warfare going on at the board tucked away in the recess. Couples continue their inane tittle-tattle. server desperately ignore patronising conversation from nonsensical men trying to present they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a shtup that a very moderately piece of jewellery has changed deal at the table in the corner. nonentity'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 whitened paper.

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

Over 45 minute his eyes change from smiling confidence, to chamfer confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his lot, trading her discomfort and embarrassment for the foreplay that he normally evaluator much, so much secure. irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine-coloured, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting people to reckon at.

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

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a dissimilar woman. Tall, with her pelage on, his intimation taking into custody in his pharynx. Her centre have a acuity to them. A purpose. He pauses to take the figure of speech in- her fragrance now assaulting his mentality, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your prat, and rule us a taxi in the following 45 seconds, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the belittled square of paper on the board in front of him, turns, and walks off.

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