I stared at him. My mouth agape.
He repeated it, a small devilish smile flicked across his face.
Small little lighting bolts began to bubble deep inside of me. I felt my cheeks flush.
I was furious. If he thought I was a handful before, he hadn’t seen anything yet.
I got up from my seat, extended my arm and slapped him hard across his check. So hard, that his eyes bulged out and the cut of steak that he had been chewing on for what felt like a decade, flew out of his mouth and went skidding across the floor.
The hubbub of chatter that had been the soundtrack to this short and extremely unpleasant evening, came to an abrupt stop.
People trying their hardest, but not hard enough to pretend that they weren’t trying to find out what the cause of the slap was.
I picked up my bag and without giving him a look, I made my way towards the door. Bitch I heard him mumble as I my hand reached out the open it.
I hated that word. It stung.
Slowly I turned around and marched back over to him. I picked up the bottle of 1985 or whatever year it was and poured the whole thing over him.
A river of red flowed across his crops white shirt. His hands flailing about him, as he spluttered.
I dropped the bottle letting it crash to the floor and continued on with my exit.
Blind dates sucked.