What?

A bagless vacuum, Barbara? That sounds perfectly addictive. Like it'll suck you in and spit you out without a second glance. The devil's playthings, indeed. After sending this morning's post, I started to think about passion, and your post from last Thursday. This came out as I sat in Luna, sucking coffee:

He steps into the embrace of her arms. She has met him at the door, at the apartment where she lives above the dry-cleaning business. She has met him with half-closed eyes. The air coming from her apartment is warm with the smell of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, cinnamon. He feels her breath on the back of his neck, feels her breathing full against his chest, his belly. Heart pressed to heart, they clock in rhythm and the inner world begins, resumes, encompassing past and future. In due time, they step back to regard each other.

Thanks for the nudge, Barbara. See you tomorrow.

Bob