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 little off-the-wall, 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 paper and, it had a small bow on it.

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

OK, arrogance. A kind of brusque, charming offhanded manner that on one day left her wondering exactly how much he’d wanted her, then the next day was intense, direct, 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 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 ready. But then you need to open it here.’

‘Understand?’

He smiles.

She bites her lip, eyes: down.

‘No? You don’t want it?’

He goes to grab the neat parcel.