[The rejoinder on her lips (namely: what sort of bicycle has nipples?) evaporates in the wake of her name, which flares her pupils and has her reaching out reflexively into the space around them, probing for anyone close enough to overhear along every axis of her Lyctoral senses - but of course there is no one. Only the strange, solitary intimacy of sacred syllables, strung out from a new mouth.]

It looks more like a pair of eyeglasses than a bicycle. Where are you supposed to sit on it? Where are the pedals?

[She takes a slug of her wine, folding her free arm across her own 'bicycle' as she glances over her shoulder.]

I suppose I shall be satisfied this isn't about to descend into - some kind of orgy. It's been dreadful enough managing him lately as it is.