Just as she’d emptied
her third glass of Cava
and mopped up the sauce
from the angulas in garlic
he licked the last drop
from her little finger
and passed her
the tissue-wrapped box
of rose gold hoops
from Moska’s.
And after the waiter
crumbed the table
and cleared the bottle
before the figs and cheese
she blushed her way
back from the damas
and handed him
under the table
a small damp ball
of black silk.