On the balcony is the slanting sunlight of the afternoon and it feels like spring even though it's only mid-January. The weather is practically balmy, although the bare winter branches of the maple pointing brittle fingers at the sky tell otherwise. It feels good to beat on the blankets and comforters with an old badminton racket, watching the dust clouds rise in great billows under the dull, satisfying thwunk of each swing. One of the neighbors is doing the same thing; I can hear her but I can't see her. It's a thoroughly domestic task and I wonder why I don't do it more often. It's better than pulling off buttons and snipping off zippers so that the victim, later, blinks in befuddlement as they realize they can't fasten anything.