The Kubic Kat

Inside the Marrakech the light was dim, and it took a little time for the Maitre d’ to find a waiter to seat them. Thus it was that Mr Smith was first able to determine that the restaurant was decked out in some kind of Moroccan theme. Cushions were strewn around a series of low table, and the dinners sat cross legged, or reclining on their sides.

  He had never been to such a place before, although he had heard of such restaurants. He should have guessed from the name, but in all the rush he had not even considered the type of establishment that they would be going to.

  “Wow, it looks really authentic!” said Fulvia.

  “You have never been before?”

  “No, it is not the sort of place that you go to on your own, and in truth, with my job, I don’t often get invited out.”

  “Then let us hope that its reputation for exquisite food is justified and that it is at least as good as the décor.” He said, as he put his arm around her waist.

  At this point their waiter turned up to guide them to their table.

  Fulvia had some problems with how to sit, and in the end had simply hiked her skirt half way up to her waist, so that it would not constrict her too much as she sat on the floor. He tried not to look, but it was impossible not to catch a glimpse of her thong. When he looked up she had caught his eye and blushed. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  He shook his head. “No, by all means feel free. Comfort is important.”

  She leant forward so she could whisper close to his ear, “True, but tell me: how was the free show?”