You spend the short walk to the restaurant attempting to move as if you were born in heels while suspiciously eyeing the pavement for cracks. Over and over you remind yourself that you will not be shy tonight. Tonight, Orlando will see a confidant, attractive woman as opposed to the tomboy buddy he seems to have categorized you as. You practice sidelong glances from under lashes that you assure yourself are lush and flirting. He doesn't see. You even out a huff of impatience. So he needs the more obvious? Well, that can be done. You curl you arm around the elbow he had politely offered and allow your breast to press lightly against him.

"Here we are," he announces, and steps forward to open the door. You spot Liz and Derrick at the bar, already drinking. Wonderful. You slide onto a stool beside Liz and order some liquid courage while Orlando hugs his friend hello, pounding his back and wishing him a happy birthday. Liz leans over to you.

"What on earth happened to his head?" She sounds mildly horrified.

"I did it," you reply, and she swivels to look at you.

"As punishment?" she muses thoughtfully. You laugh, sigh, and then tell her of the afternoon. She pats your hand sympathetically. She's known of your feelings for him from the start, and always stayed the silent supporter in deference to your shyness. But she never holds back when the mood strikes her.

"For fuck's sake, stop torturing yourself. Either do something about it or find some random boy to shag and get it out of your system!" You laugh.

"Well, actually…" You tell her of your plan tonight, hurriedly asking for advice before the boys break in on the conversation. She smiles, diving into with energetic purpose, and you are treated to a whirlwind crash course in the Liz Finishing School of Seduction until the waiter interrupts with news that the table is ready. Luckily, the four of you are seated at a round table rather than a booth, and you aren't faced with the dilemma of sitting next to Orlando, where you can casually brush against him, or across from him, where he can see each movement you make. You are seated beside him, but just far enough away for face to face conversation.

You lean over to share a menu with him, ignoring your own, and run a lazy finger down the edge to rest upon his hand. When the food arrives, you offer a bite of yours to him, feeding him with your fingers as he looks at you quizzically. He offers his in return, and you let the tip of your tongue slowly lick his fork, intently staring into his eyes. You spend the rest of the evening angling your body to push your breast up against your arm, running your tongue along the rim of a wineglass, saying anything that pops to mind in a throaty, suggestive murmur. His chocolate eyes begin to follow you, even when he is speaking to the others, and you sneak a glance to Liz, who grins encouragingly. As dessert and coffee are served, you feel dizzily triumphant. Orlando is barely touching his food, uncharacteristically quiet. And then Derrick, being Derrick, helps. Which is to say he doesn't help. At all.

"Orli, how's it going with the girl at the theatre? The one with the…" he lifts his hands suggestively in a crass gesture. They fall into a discussion of the woman in question, trading pointers on how to 'practice scenes' and the like. You barely manage to keep your jaw from dropping, and send a panicked look to Liz, who shrugs helplessly. The mood is ruined. You push miserably at your cake, suddenly nauseous and wishing you could just go home and forget this awful experiment. Orlando doesn't seem to notice as he chatters on about the actresses at the school theatre, obliviously crushing you back down into the pathetic creature you've been for months. You feel anger licking at your stomach. Anger at him, and yourself for being so foolish, mooning over him and not doing a thing about it, then failing when you finally have the courage to try. Not anymore. As of tonight, you resolve to get over him at any cost.

As the two of you walk back home, you are again silent, this time fuming instead of nervous. He asks quietly if you're feeling alright, and you bite back the urge to lash out at him, pleading fatigue instead. He stands at your door, waiting as you unlock it. You turn to him to say goodnight, and he stays you with a light touch on your arm.

"I hope you feel better, love." You wince at the endearment, move to turn away. "Wait." His voice is quiet. You look back wearily. "You looked smashing tonight. Truly." His irises are deep, almost black. You swallow a lump in your throat, look away. He kisses your cheek, lingering a moment, and you breath in his musky scent, cherishing the light touch of his hands at your waist, then retreat into your flat and lock the door. You tear off the dress that should have changed everything, scrub your face, and comfort your heart with soft pajama pants and a comfy white tank top. Flinging yourself onto the sofa, you fall asleep to the numbing drown of the television.