She was excited to be given a present.

offset dates don't often command that kind of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a lilliputian flakey, 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 low bow on it.

They'd been chatting for days. Not long as far as story's groovy love affair go, but there'd been something about the back and forth of the interchange which had piqued her interest. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A variety of brusque, charming offhanded personal manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the next day was intense, address, incisive and irritatingly close to the truth, when he'd asked her questions 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 affair ’, he continued. ‘ You can leave alone it wrapped, and charter it home with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

‘ Or, you can spread out it here at the mesa, read the instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're set. 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 tract. She moves fast than him and catch it, instinctively ; a stab of rancor 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 ?'

get-go date.

It's. A. beginning. Fucking. Date.

Ultimatums ?

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

screw. Arrogance doesn't even get to plow it.

And yet.

He looks quiet. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his president. Sipping wine-colored. Eyes : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

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

She rips off the paper. The waiting staff seem at once to bulk large over her, and other buffet car appear to have turned themselves to see. The still in the restaurant becomes deafening.

But of course nobody tending. They're all wrapped up in their own living to look at a pretty woman, opening a box.

The box is leather, disconsolate blueness. A clutch closes it with a one brass clit. It makes a distinct pop as she presses it opened with her thumb.

The content is obscured by a diminished piece of paper, which she moves out of the way, to get word a bullet-shaped nag. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the widest percentage, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling gem at the former end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood bang, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can feel the burning sensation ranch from her neck, down her chest, through her gut and punt up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must sustain seen- it's a nooky tooshie plug. In a restaurant. He's got no fucking shame. She realises her centre oasis't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the diminished astragal of perspiration 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 oblivious to the psychological warfare going on at the board tucked away in the corner. pair continue their inane chitchat. server desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to establish they know something about wine-coloured to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a fucking that a very pretty slice of jewellery has changed hands at the table in the corner. nobody's looking at the woman staring at the table, with her left hand on a minor box, and her mightily hand holding an even humble square of snowy paper.

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

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

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

piece of ass. nookie. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her uncomfortableness and embarrassment for the arousal that he normally judges much, so practically better. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine-colored, pays the posting, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting mass to wait at.

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

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different cleaning lady. Tall, with her coat on, his breath catches in his throat. Her oculus have a asperity to them. A role. He pauses to use up the image in- her fragrance now assaulting his brain, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your arse, and find us a hack in the following 45 second base, or I am going for a drinking by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the lowly square of paper on the table in front man of him, turns, and paseo off.

On the paper is a oily vivid-reddish smear where she's blotted her lip, and a unity Word of God, written by him : ‘ spit'.