I look sheepish. “This is technically a little dangerous. But I tested it on myself first.” “If it’s dangerous it’s more likely to hurt you, you idiot.” I grin and kiss your knitted brows. “A&E would fix me up fine. We’re not sure if they’d find anything incriminating inside you, though.” It’s been two hours since you swallowed the curiously heavy marble in its waxy, hermetic plastic. I’ve been tappy-tapping on my laptop while you write long-hand in a pad, the perfect picture of alone-together comfort.

You can’t tell if it’s warm in your room or if the heat is coming from inside you. Digestion is an energy-intensive process and your body has been putting in the energy for four hours now. The cute red-headed woman who is the unfortunate recipient of this attention has long since stopped struggling. Your chest is feeling less constricted: especially plump or plentiful prey will sit high in your middle and compress your lungs.

So this morning you wake to find me sitting upright in bed, leafing through a copy of Grey’s Anatomy I brought with me last night. You stretch your neck to see what I’m reading. The technical drawings depict humans cleanly broken apart, carefully labelled, bloodless. I smile and wish you good morning, lean down and place a kiss where your black hair is mussed up from where you slept. You half-close your eyes, cat-like, and snuggle closer.