Don’t you like it?’
She looks around. Sex ‘You do. Every bone in her body is aching to just get up and leave, and let him sit on his own, with his smug fucking face slowly realising that his game’s backfired. With that, she precision-places the small square of paper on the table in front of him, turns, and walks off. Open it here? She was excited to be given a present. Irritation creeps over him, and he downs his wine, pays the bill, and starts idly, petulantly casting about the restaurant for interesting people to look at. Precise. ‘But here’s the thing’, he continued. Flanked. She moves the box closer. Rude. She moves quicker than him and snatches it, instinctively; a stab of resentment at the small remnant of his smile flicker-sneering over his eyes. Don’t you like it?’
She looks around. He looks calm. First. She looks like a different woman. The content is obscured by a small piece of paper, which she moves out of the way, to discover a bullet-shaped plug. Not quite arrogance. Eyes: assessing. A purpose. ‘You can leave it wrapped, and take it home with you. He’s been briefly upstaged. He looks calm. A clasp closes it with a single brass button. OK.’
‘So.
