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 small gonzo, 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 report and, it had a small bow on it.

They'd been chatting for days. Not long as far as history's cracking love story go, but there'd been something about the rear and Forth River of the exchange which had piqued her involvement. Not quite arrogance.

OK, hauteur. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how a good deal he'd wanted her, then the next day was intense, direct, penetrative and irritatingly close to the Truth, when he'd asked her interrogative sentence about herself.

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

‘ I'm not telling you ’, came the reply when she asked, understandably enough, what was inside.

‘ But here's the affair ’, he continued. ‘ You can impart it wrapped, and subscribe to it home with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

‘ Or, you can open up it here at the tabular array, read the instructions, and we'll use it together, when you're make. But then you need to open up it here .'

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, eyes : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

He goes to grab the neat portion. She moves straightaway than him and bit it, instinctively ; a stab of rancour at the small end 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. First. nooky. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every off-white in her eubstance is aching to just get up and pass on, and let him sit on his own, with his smug fucking face slowly realising that his game's backfired.

shtup. haughtiness doesn't even begin to cover it.

And yet.

He looks calm. Laconic, even. He's not even shifted in his chair. Sipping wine-colored. middle : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

What could be so fucking shameful that she'd need to pass water this form of decision, now ?

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

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

The box is leather, drab blue. A grasp closes it with a single brass button. It makes a clear-cut pop as she presses it undecided with her thumb.

The message is obscured by a small piece of composition, which she moves out of the way, to happen upon a bullet-shaped plug. Chrome. About 4cm wide at the blanket share, and shaped like a teardrop, extending to a sparkling jewel at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

line of descent hurry, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can feel the burning sensation spread from her cervix, down her chest, through her gut and back up her spine.

She can barely talk- person must let seen- it's a fucking butt hype. In a eating place. He's got no nooky ignominy. She realises her center seaport't moved off the box- and that now her face is flushed, and the smallest pearl of elbow grease 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. span continue their inane chitchat. Waiters desperately ignore patronising conversation from idiotic men trying to present they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

cypher gives a piece of ass that a very middling while of jewellery has changed hands at the table in the street corner. Nobody's looking at the woman staring at the board, with her left hand on a small box, and her proper hand holding an even smaller second power of White paper.

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

Over 45 instant his eyes change from smiling confidence, to chase confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

ass. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his fate, trading her discomfort and plethora for the foreplay that he normally judges much, so much ameliorate. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the eating place for interesting the great unwashed to calculate at.

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

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different woman. Tall, with her coat on, his breath catches in his throat. Her middle have a sharpness to them. A intent. He pauses to take the image in- her perfume now assaulting his mind, 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 rear, and find out us a taxi in the future 45 secondment, or I am going for a drink by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small square of paper on the table in presence of him, turns, and walks off.

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