Fiction
Snowfall
Just do what she says.
“Move your hands,” she whispered.
My hands were on her wrists.
Her hands were around my throat. Squeezing, forefingers pressing into my windpipe.
She brought her head closer to mine, her mouth now touching my ear.
“Move your hands,” she repeated, this time just a bit louder, something playful in her tone.
“I — ” The sound immediately spluttered, turned into a cough. I pulled harder at her wrists.
“You’re having trouble breathing,” she said, bored. “I know. Just move your hands.”
I glanced around, knowing the parking lot was empty, just as it had been when I arrived. I shouldn’t have stayed late, should have gone home before dark. And should not have brought the briefcase with me.
“Look, it isn’t hard,” she said, pushing me harder against the side of the car. “Just drop your hands. If you want, you can hold my waist. Really, I won’t mind.”
I considered how that would work, somehow resting my hands behind me, on this mystery woman’s hips. I remembered admiring her hips when I walked past her a few moments ago — or minutes or hours, time was slowing down — smiling, nodding politely as she walked past. And then she’d pushed me…
