She is drifting in the warm lulling roar of the laundromat. She is a writer of erotica. She has her standards. No vampires, no werewolves, no zombies. She’s no prude; au contraire, light bondage is just too trendy, has lost its appeal for her. She likes bare skin in all its colors, how it blushes and glows. The breeze that stirs the curtains. The way afternoon light kisses clean sheets. She sees her reflection in the fish-eyed dryer door, sucking on the long curving straw in her frappuccino. She sucks it dry and revels in the throaty gurgle of the last drops. Clothes tumble round and round, a mad chase of bras and panties.
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