A Table with a View

His lips searched hers as they sat side-by-side on the concrete terrace. The other diners didn’t seem to notice when she pulled her head away, leaving his lips unmet. He lunged again with the certainty of a man used to hearing ‘yes’.
She shook her head, as if to dislodge a resting fly from her hair and a reproachful murmur shot from her lips. She gazed straight ahead.
No-one stirred from the coffee and ice cream, except to raise their squinted eyes at the spring sun.
His hand snaked around her throat and rested. For a moment, her head sat at an odd angle, as if a screw had been removed from the back of her neck causing her skull to fall forwards, if it were not for his large hand keeping head, and dignity, in place.
One squeeze. The peace of the whole scene hung on how deeply his fingers would imprint her throat. How much pressure he would put on her Trachea.
She froze, watching the traffic pass her gaze. His too fixed on the moving cars, waiting, hand resting on her throat.
She gently slid from his grasp and into the far corner of her generously wide seat.
He turned to rouse the waiter’s attention, waving his wallet.