Now that I think about it, this goes back to the very beginning, when I entered the party from the balcony, put my suction-climbing gear into my handbag, along with the knife I'd been holding in my teeth, and saw you standing alone, looking around the room with big eyes, and I'd never felt so vulnerable.
I felt a vacuum cleaner suction my insides.
At the appointed hour, we phoned Zoe, knowing that she could reach her computer without leaving her seat ("My claw has suction cups to help grip things," she reassured us).
I'm in my own little suction cup of silence, until I turn on the tunes, at which point I can feel the bass buzzing through my brain.
With her small eyes focused keenly on mine, she suctions my chest, then my legs, and makes a beeline for my hair.
It's as if my heart is made of suction cups and my hands are lint rollers and the rest of my body is made of something else very sticky.
The scalp is filled with blood vessels, but I made quick work of them with long cauterizing tweezers in my right hand and a delicate, angled suction in my left the first tool singed the blood vessels closed, the other let me see where I was moving.
I lay still for hours with a doughy oil-filled crater set on the base of my spine like a suction hose to the skin.
My contacts were dried out and suctioned to my eyeballs, and a ring of black dirt outlined my frame.
And then he clamped my eyelid open to prevent me from blinking, and put a suction ring around my eye.
Personally, my hygienist instructs me to close my mouth to allow the suction straw to do its job fully.
