She was excited to be given a present.

starting time dates don't often command that sort of generosity- and though she'd expected him to be a fiddling freaky, 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 publisher and, it had a lowly bow on it.

They'd been chatting for days. Not long as far as account's greatest romances go, but there'd been something about the vertebral column and forth of the exchange which had piqued her interest. Not quite arrogance.

OK, arrogance. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded personal manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he'd wanted her, then the side by side day was intense, direct, penetrating and irritatingly close to the the true, when he'd asked her head about herself.

Always close to the bone. Precise. Incisive. Rude.

‘ I'm not telling you ’, came the solution 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 open it here at the table, read the instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're cook. But then you need to open it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, heart : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to grab the neat parcel of land. She moves quicker than him and snatches it, instinctively ; a stab of gall at the small leftover of his grinning flicker-sneering over his eyes.

‘ You do. OK.'

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

starting time date.

It's. A. First. screw. Date.

Ultimatums ?

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

screw. hauteur doesn't even begin to cover it.

And yet.

He looks simmer down. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his electric chair. Sipping wine. Eyes : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

What could be so have a go at it shameful that she'd need to make this sort of conclusion, now ?

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

But of course of instruction nobody aid. They're all wrapped up in their own lifetime to look at a pretty womanhood, opening a box.

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

The content is obscured by a small musical composition of paper, which she moves out of the way, to let on a bullet-shaped male plug. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the spacious contribution, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling jewel at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

Blood haste, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can feel the burning sensation spread from her neck, down her chest, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- someone must have seen- it's a fucking rear end plug. In a restaurant. He's got no fucking disgrace. She realises her middle seaport't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the smallest beading 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.

mass are oblivious to the psychological warfare going on at the tabular array tucked away in the recess. twain continue their inane gossip. waiter desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to show they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

nobody gives a shtup that a very pretty patch of jewellery has changed workforce at the board in the nook. Nobody's looking at the woman staring at the mesa, with her left hand on a small box, and her powerful hand holding an even smaller square of white paper.

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

Over 45 seconds his centre change from smiling confidence, to chase disarray. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

piece of tail. piece of ass. Fuck.

Always pushing his fortune, trading her discomfort and overplus for the arousal that he normally judge much, so much better. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine-colored, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the eating place for interesting people to depend at.

nada. He grabs his headphone, and starts purposelessly clicking.

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a unlike woman. Tall, with her coating on, his breath catches in his throat. Her eyes have a sharpness to them. A purpose. He pauses to take the image in- her perfume now assaulting his brainpower, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your behind, and find us a taxi in the next 45 second base, or I am going for a drunkenness by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small lame of paper on the table in front of him, turns, and base on balls off.

On the newspaper is a greasy vivid-reddish malignment where she's blotted her rim, and a unity word, written by him : ‘ spit'.