He fidgets around in his seat pretending to be supremely uncomfortable with his chair all of a sudden, rolling an annoyed eye to his watch and then to the waitress busily roving in the back ground. Looking anywhere to avoid her dominating stare— cutting into him as if she could expose his soul one strip of flesh per glance.

She has been feeling her gun under the table, stroking the cold barrel warm, transferring her anticipation this way, relaxing the uncultivated killer within.