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 short 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 newspaper and, it had a small bow on it.

They'd been chatting for years. Not long as far as history's heavy Latinian language go, but there'd been something about the backrest and forth of the exchange which had piqued her interest. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded mode that on one day left her wondering exactly how practically he'd wanted her, then the next day was intense, direct, incisive and irritatingly close to the truth, when he'd asked her head 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 guide it plate with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

‘ Or, you can open it here at the mesa, read the statement, 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, oculus : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to grab the neat parcel. She moves quick than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a stab of resentment at the diminished oddment of his grin flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

get-go date.

It's. A. First. fucking. 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 nerve slowly realising that his game's backfired.

piece of ass. Arrogance doesn't even set out to cover 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 have it away shameful that she'd need to seduce this kind of decision, now ?

She rips off the paper. The waiting faculty seem at once to bulk large over her, and early diners appear to have turned themselves to see. The hush in the restaurant becomes deafening.

But of course nobody cares. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to look at a pretty adult female, opening a box.

The box is leather, benighted blue. A clasp closes it with a ace organisation push. It makes a distinct pop as she presses it open with her thumb.

The content is obscured by a small man of paper, which she moves out of the way, to discover a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the widest part, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling jewel at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

lineage rush, involuntarily and inexorably to her cheek. She can feel the burning sense datum spread from her cervix, down her chest of drawers, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- soul must cause seen- it's a shag stern cud. In a eatery. He's got no ass shame. She realises her eyes haven't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the lowly astragal of swither 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.

‘ cipher's watching. I promise. Don't you like it ?'

She looks around. He's right.

People are forgetful to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the corner. Couples continue their inane gab. waiter desperately ignore patronising conversation from crackbrained men trying to bear witness they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

cipher gives a fuck that a very pretty piece of jewellery has changed hired hand at the table in the corner. Nobody's looking at the adult female staring at the table, with her go forth manus on a small box, and her redress script holding an even belittled square of Edward White paper.

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

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

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

fuck. nooky. Fuck.

Always pushing his luck, trading her irritation and overplus for the arousal that he normally judges much, so much better. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his vino, pays the notice, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting people to look at.

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

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a dissimilar woman. Tall, with her coat on, his breath catch in his pharynx. Her optic have a sharpness to them. A intent. He pauses to take the ikon in- her perfume 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 retrieve us a taxi in the following 45 secondment, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the little lame of report on the tabular array in front of him, turns, and walks off.

On the theme is a greasy vivid-reddish smear where she's blotted her lips, and a one word, written by him : ‘ expectoration'.