The dinner plates were cleared, but the hunger in Meera's eyes hadn't abated. The ambient noise of the restaurant shifted as a live pianist began to play a slow, melancholic jazz standard in the corner. The notes floated through the air, heavy and languid, signaling a shift in the evening's atmosphere.

Meera dabbed her mouth with the linen napkin, her eyes never leaving mine. My erection, triggered by her foot under the table and trapped by the silver ring, was a painful, throbbing reality pressed against the underside of the table. I was praying for the check, for the sanctuary of the car, for anything that would allow me to adjust the twelve ounces of metal crushing my groin.