Somewhere deep in her terracotta throws, scattered

like a womb, she hugged a satin cushion, Indian,

ornate, dubious quality, smelling wonderfully of

sandalwood and her. I guided her machine to

the right spot, found the switch to make her senses

rise and her body drift from the space where her green

eyes peeped through, beautiful but cold, shining without

depth, luring again to the temptation of insecurity. No

reality here, or suspended for a while. What would Jane

have thought if she’d been there? I’d explain it’s just

machine love, the only sort that’s left. Powered like music

on computers. Yes. Let’s call it music on computers