Neema bites down on the inside of her right cheek as hard as she can. The pain is sharp and immediate. Blood fills her mouth with the sweet coppery taste of old pennies.
The man with the electric blue eyes roughly flips Neema off the chair and onto her stomach.
That's when she sees the fat woman.
An immensely obese woman is squatting in the farthest corner of the room. She's blonde, her hair a bright yellow nest of spiky tendrils. Her skin is florid, almost fire-engine red. Neema can't tell if her complexion is natural or the result of her exertions. She's dressed in a floor-length cotton dress covered with red, yellow and orange flowers. To Neema the bright flowers look like eyes. The fat woman squats on her haunches, smiling, her eyes like slits of darkness buried beneath thick layers of fat in her cheeks.
"Hi, Nancy," she says brightly.
The fat woman shifts her weight, as if moving to adjust to an uncomfortable chair. "Just… taking out… the trash."
And now Neema can see a single leg, the small foot clad in a bright red sneaker, sticking out from between the fat woman's thighs, and she realizes the fat woman is sitting on someone; that there's a person trapped beneath her. The leg kicks, once, weakly, the small foot pointing, flexing, pointing and flexing, then a spasm of frantic movement as the heel bangs against the floor.
The fat woman giggles and grinds her hips rhythmically, bouncing up and down, her thrusts moving with greater and greater intensity, matching the rising intensity of the red sneaker, her giggles growing louder as the sneaker's spasms grow weaker. From somewhere behind and beneath her, a muffled cry of pain punctuates the fat woman's giggles. Then the red sneaker stops bouncing. The fat woman gasps, her breath chuffing out in a series of short squeals, and releases a long shuddering rasp of pleasure. Finally, she falls backward, breathless, onto her forearms. After a moment, she opens her eyes and stares at Neema, purring, her voice a nasal Midwestern wheeze.
"That rings my bell every time!"