Every Thursday

There was something dark and cruel and cold and wholly terrifying about the way Peter loved Andrew. When they had coffee together, in a small, clinical chain cafe, he could feel the twisted emotion rise above the cracked porcelain and place itself, slowly at first, but with increasing strength and dexterity, around his neck. The threat of asphyxiation hung thickly over the ground black beans. Andrew felt dead already, and it was only just past midday.