“You remind me of a praying mantis,” he said.
“Oh really?” She blew smoke out of her mouth, finding a loose pillow and pressing it against her bare breasts. A smirk arrived. “How so?”
“Your height,” he said, trying not to stain the ten minute old sweat with a back-ended compliment. “Your bended, angular limbs. Your skin, which looks green in this fluorescent lighting, and…”
“Please don’t say my serrated forearms.”
“… your serrated forearms. Even the way you seem to worship nothing, but still bow your head like you do.”
She stared at her cigarette – cliché residue of a post-coital encounter. “A praying mantis. Hm.”
“You know what happens after a female mantis mates?”
“Uh, no, I don’t.”
“She decapitates her partner,” she said, green eyes glossing over, insect lids wiping smoke away. “She mates with a male and then—”
“I’d like to take that comparison back,” he said, almost swallowing the filter of his cigarette, choking.
“Too late,” she said.
Then she bit his head off.