Staring down at the pillow, rhythmic unblurring, Symmi blinks and feels the high start to slip away. No paranoia yet; she’s in a decidedly clinical state of mind.
Anatole’s chanting her name as he thrusts, the breathy way she doesn’t like: “Symm-eh!” She feels her viscera moving, pushing up against each other. Swing and knock. They’re a set of clacking silver balls hung from the frame of her ribs, back and forth like the ones on the desk of her high school counselor, damn, what was his name?
“Newton?” she murmurs. “Newlin!”
“Sih!” gasps Anatole, “what?” too late to pull out.