In Preparation for a Dinner Date | Liz Pascoe

Three hours ago these tense nylons had been my only pair without a run. The threads uncoiled and sprang open my flesh beneath the table, and my nervous, shifting legs, disguised by the maroon napkin, itched and quivered while he toasted the wine. When the salad arrived I painted Picasso portraits with the dressing and carrots, until I excused myself and scuttled to the restroom. I wrapped the nylons in toilet paper and hid them behind the garbage bin. My naked legs and I returned and discovered my creamy pasta waiting.