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 newspaper and, it had a pocket-sized bow on it.

They'd been chatting for days. Not long as far as history's large romances go, but there'd been something about the cover and Forth River of the substitution which had piqued her pursuit. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how often he'd wanted her, then the next day was vivid, direct, incisive and irritatingly close to the truth, when he'd asked her questions about herself.

Always close to the bone. 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 provide it wrapped, and fill 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 spread out it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, eyes : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to seize the neat parcel. She moves speedy than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a stab of resentment 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 date.

It's. A. first-class honours degree. Fucking. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every os 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 game's backfired.

fucking. Arrogance doesn't even set out to cover it.

And yet.

He looks calm. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his death chair. Sipping vino. optic : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

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

She rips off the paper. The waiting faculty seem at once to loom over her, and other buffet car appear to have turned themselves to see. The still in the eating place becomes deafening.

But of course nonentity caution. They're all wrapped up in their own aliveness to calculate at a pretty womanhood, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark blueness. A clench closes it with a exclusive brass button. It makes a distinct pop as she presses it open with her thumb.

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

She immediately snaps the box shut.

roue rushes, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can feel the burning sensation cattle farm from her cervix, down her chest, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must have seen- it's a screw butt quid. In a eating place. 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 smallest beads of sweat 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.

multitude are oblivious to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the corner. couple continue their inane gab. server desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to render they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

nonentity gives a fuck that a very pretty spell of jewelry has changed hands at the table in the corner. Nobody's looking at the woman staring at the tabular array, with her left hired man on a small box, and her right field hand holding an even pocket-sized square of white paper.

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

Over 45 seconds his middle change from smiling confidence, to wrinkle confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

fucking. piece of tail. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her uncomfortableness and overplus for the arousal that he normally jurist much, so a great deal better. aggravation creeps over him, and he downs his vino, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting mass to take care at.

zippo. He grabs his earphone, and starts purposelessly clicking.

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different adult female. Tall, with her pelage on, his breather grab in his throat. Her center have a sharpness to them. A purpose. He pauses to rent the ikon in- her perfume now assaulting his genius, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your stern, and obtain us a taxi in the following 45 seconds, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the humble square of paper on the table in front of him, turns, and walk off.

On the composition is a oily vivid-reddish spot where she's blotted her sass, and a bingle word, written by him : ‘ saliva'.