The chips had gone cold in their paper wrapped basket, the glass of ice water melted and sweating condensation all over the table beside where his arm rested on the fiberboard surface. Leaving the confined space of the booth definitely had its merits, because he was beginning to feel just the slightest bit claustrophobic in the quaint little chippy he'd brought her to. It hadn't exactly panned out the way he'd planned, but at least she seemed more relaxed than she had when they'd arrived.
“. . Wellll, I dunno, thought we might kip up in this here booth for the night, gorge ourselves on chips, make our stomachs turn with too many carbonated beverages,” he rambled, peering towards one of the television sets attached the wall, “. . . watch curling matches on the telly,” and he trailed off with a look of puzzled distaste. “. . . On second thought, I think I'd rather the fresh air,” he muttered resolutely, already sliding free of the booth and rounding the table to haul her to her feet by a hand.