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 lilliputian off-the-wall, the neatly wrapped box, 8 by 8 cm, sat on the tabular array between them in the bar where they'd met. It was covered in patched paper and, it had a small bow on it.

They'd been chatting for days. Not long as far as story'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, haughtiness. A variety of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how lots he'd wanted her, then the next day was vivid, engineer, incisive and irritatingly close to the truth, when he'd asked her questions 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 allow for it wrapped, and choose it place with you. But : I promise ; I promise you, you will never use it with me. Ever.'

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

'Understand ?'

He smiles.

She bites her lip, middle : down.

‘ No ? You don't want it ?'

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

‘ You do. OK.'

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

First date.

It's. A. first-class honours degree. ass. Date.

Ultimatums ?

Every os in her soundbox is aching to just get up and leave, and let him sit on his own, with his smug fucking face slowly realising that his plot'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. Eyes : assessing.

She moves the box closer.

What could be so sleep with shameful that she'd need to make this kind of decision, now ?

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

But of course nobody guardianship. They're all wrapped up in their own lives to face at a pretty woman, opening a box.

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

The subject is obscured by a modest piece of report, which she moves out of the way, to discover a bullet-shaped chew. Chrome. About 4cm full at the widest theatrical role, and shaped like a tear, extending to a scintillate gem at the other end.

She immediately snaps the box shut.

bloodline rushes, involuntarily and inexorably to her face. She can feel the burning sense 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 buns plug. In a restaurant. He's got no roll in the hay shame. She realises her heart haven't moved off the box- and that now her human face is flushed, and the minor pearl of travail are forming on her brow.

‘ Don't you like it ?'

She can't feeling 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.

hoi polloi are oblivious to the psychological warfare going on at the table tucked away in the corner. Couples continue their inane chitchat. Waiters desperately ignore patronising conversation from derisory men trying to show they know something about wine to their disinterested dates.

Nobody gives a piece of tail that a very pretty part of jewellery has changed hands at the board in the corner. Nobody's looking at the woman staring at the table, with her remaining hand on a small box, and her correctly hand holding an even smaller square of blank paper.

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

Over 45 second base his centre change from smiling confidence, to chamfer confusion. He's pushed her too far.

Fuck.

Always playing these games.

shag. Fuck. Fuck.

Always pushing his chance, trading her irritation and superfluity for the arousal that he normally evaluator much, so much better. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the visor, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the eatery for interesting people to calculate at.

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

‘ You coming then ?'

He looks up. She looks like a different char. Tall, with her coat on, his breathing place catch in his throat. Her eyes have a sharpness to them. A purpose. He pauses to admit the effigy in- her perfume now assaulting his wit, and distracting him further. He's been briefly upstaged. Flanked. Blind-sided.

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

'Get up off your backside, and find us a taxi in the next 45 seconds, or I am going for a beverage by myself… ’. With that, she precision-places the small square of paper on the tabular array in front of him, turns, and walks off.

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