Pointless opening, going nowhere.

IT was clear that she had gone unnoticed as she downed the
Martini and slipped the empty glass into her purse. She toyed with an
olive between finger and thumb, crushing it slightly between her tips.
Deciding the fruit was now too damaged to eat she slumped into her seat
and thought to herself, &;quot;Why Sunday?&;quot; She'd long come
to the conclusion that Mario had no thought for anyone but himself, and
the fact he had failed to acknowledge this day's tragic significance
simply augmented this. The man has a heart of a rhino, she mused. Black
and slow, armour plated.

At last, he arrived. His
slow cool steps sounded like hammer blows in her mind. The clock
hand clicked in time with his movement. He presented himself at
her seat, and feinted a mocking bow towards her. 'You bastard' she
thought, but smiled at his gesture. He believed he was in control of
everything, and generally he was right, but her mind was still free and
she could still despise him. He hadn't won that yet, not through his
early charm nor his overpowering deviance that had revealed itself
later in their relationship, like a tiger snapping at heels.
&;quot;How are you-a doing?&;quot; he quizzed, his ridiculous
cod-Italian accent was ever-present, 11 years in Burma had not dulled
that.