Author: Hillary Lyon

“You have three minutes,” Harmon said, sticking the end of an unlit cigar in his mouth.“Go.”

“Okay,” Jepson nervously began. “Picture this: an unlikely romance between a peppy vacuum cleaner and a stoic lawn mower.”

Harmon struck a match and lit his cigar.

Jepson continued, “Defying the conventions of their middle class home with their love, these plucky appliances run away together to a tropical beach, where they live happily ever after.”

Harmon blew a cloud of gray smoke in Jepson’s direction.

Jepson cleared his throat. “It’s an animated, old-style cartoon adventure, a la ‘The Brave Little Toaster.’ The kids’ll love it!”

Harmon set his cigar down in the ash tray on his desk, rose and extended his hand. Jepson grinned and shook it.

“It sounds cartoony, all right,” Harmon said, releasing Jepson’s hand. “But not the sort of thing our studio is looking for. I wish you luck finding a home for it elsewhere.”

* * *

“What a preposterous premise!” Harmon said, plunking his feet down on the coffee table. His wife Mira brought him a gin martini on a tray. The pale blue sheen of her metal casing glowed beneath her silicone skin. It was a lovely effect, Harmon thought every time he saw her.

“They elope to a beach? How would that even work?” Mira asked. She loved talking with him about his work; he’d insisted on that in her programming. “The vac would get clogged with sand very quickly—and what would the lawn mower have to mow? Beaches don’t have lawns.”

“I think the average kid would wonder all that, too.” Harmon took a sip of his martini before unscrewing the top of his head, revealing the whirring circular blades within. “And their parents would find the whole idea too ridiculous, even for a cartoon.”

Mira dripped machine oil from her fingertips into Harmon’s head, lubricating the blades. “How’d he take rejection?” She asked as she replaced the top of his head.

Harmon sighed and shrugged.

“Well,” Mira coo’d, “don’t be hard on yourself. After all, it’s your job to separate the wheat from the chaff. I mean, who’d actually believe a love story between domestic machines? It’s absurd on it’s face.” She ran her hand along the back of the sofa, vacuuming up tiny bits of dandruff and lint with the palm of her hand, softly humming as she did.

Harmon grasped her hand. They both laughed.