17.

3 seconds were just about enough. Isabel stopped on her tracks, head low, then turned. Pushed Michæl into the bed and sat over him.
- You’re gonna get it so you'll stop being an asshole.
- Oh, come on – he said, glad'n'hot.
Her progress based itself on analyzed reflexes, and it abode by stages: her top, then his, then his bottom, then hers. Then she flitted out, all-fresh, absolutely unflappable, uncrooked her crooks and silently left. Army training. He was a "crisis" and she had just got him under control. He laid there, thinking: fuck. He felt his own temples. Still an asshole. Romantic no more.