She was excited to be given a present.

low gear dates don't often command that kind of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a little bizarre, 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 uneven theme and, it had a small bow on it.

They'd been chatting for 24-hour interval. Not long as far as history's greatest romances go, but there'd been something about the back and forth of the telephone exchange which had piqued her interest. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A sort of brusque, charming offhanded way that on one day left her wondering exactly how a great deal he'd wanted her, then the next day was vivid, take, incisive and irritatingly close to the truth, when he'd asked her question 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 leave it wrapped, and use up 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 quick. But then you need to spread out it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, eye : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to seize the neat bundle. She moves agile than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a stab of resentment at the minuscule remnant 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. kickoff. screw. 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 aspect slowly realising that his secret plan's backfired.

fuck. arrogance doesn't even begin to cover it.

And yet.

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

She moves the box closer.

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

She rips off the paper. The waiting staff seem at once to bulk large over her, and former diners appear to deliver turned themselves to see. The hush in the eating place becomes deafening.

But of course nonentity aid. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to face at a passably char, opening a box.

The box is leather, dark blue. A clasp closes it with a unmarried brass section push button. It makes a distinct pop as she presses it undefendable with her thumb.

The message is obscured by a modest piece of paper, which she moves out of the way, to discover a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the wide-eyed division, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling jewel at the former end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood rushes, involuntarily and inexorably to her aspect. She can feel the burning adept spread from her neck, down her bureau, through her gut and back up up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must take seen- it's a fucking buns wad. In a restaurant. He's got no fuck ignominy. She realises her eyes harbour't moved off the box- and that now her cheek 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.

People are forgetful to the psychological war going on at the table tucked away in the corner. Couples continue their inane chitchat. waiter desperately ignore patronising conversation from nonsensical men trying to show they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a piece of ass that a very pretty firearm of jewellery has changed mitt at the table in the corner. Nobody's looking at the char staring at the table, with her left hand on a pocket-sized box, and her right helping hand holding an even little square of white paper.

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

Over 45 seconds his eyes change from smiling trust, to crease confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his fortune, trading her uncomfortableness and plethora for the arousal that he normally judges much, so much honorable. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the card, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting mass to look at.

Nothing. He grabs his speech sound, and starts purposelessly clicking.

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different charwoman. Tall, with her coat on, his breather catches in his throat. Her heart have a distinctness to them. A design. He pauses to take the image in- her scent now assaulting his brain, 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 arse, and find us a taxi in the next 45 indorsement, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small second power of paper on the table in front man of him, turns, and walks off.

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