She danced though she couldn’t dance. She played chess though he beat her in a few minutes. She nodded as he spoke of books she’d never heard of. And she gave him all the signals she could short of a direct proposition, though she knew that he was engaged. She would stop at nothing to get to that moment where she could extract his rudiment and rub it onto her own face while blinking with mock innocence, then never touch him again and blackmail him for all he was worth. Or at least that was the plan, and yet by sundown it was he who had a juicy load on his visage and was swaggering away, never to be seen again except one time outside Cash Converters in Tong (near Bradford) and he looked so natural being led around on a chain by Dame Vanessa Vicious that she kept schtum.