She is also beside herself because he decided to stay.
“But only if I can sit one table over,” he says. “We can still talk.”
And exchange glances, he thinks. Maybe a smile. But his fifth or sixth glance over, as he cuts into his salad, is frozen by the red that glows from the sweat around her neck. It’s a lovely red, he thinks, and it reminds him of how ripe an apple looks in the bosom of September. Something hampers his wit and he reaches out to caress what seems to ache her.
Her pupils void her irises and her lips begin to quiver. She clutches at her neck, and puts a hand up to stop him. He continues to step closer.