Sober

I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me
But why do I feel this party's over?
No pain inside, you're my protection
But how do I feel this good sober?
    --Pink, Sober

She slapped the keys on the table and sat on the edge of the couch. She didn't take off her shoes.

City sounds sighed on the street below. A half-hearted horn. A distant siren. Work smeared on her like grease from a hot, humid day.

Her heels spiked into the carpet, and her toes swayed. The silence was too much. The television, too little. She flipped open her phone full of old messages. Nothing new.

She checked her blog. Two new comments. She devoured those, but frowned at the waning traffic.

For Twitter and Facebook, she dropped her shoes by the coffee table. Her feet rubbed away each other's ache.

At nine o'clock, she stopped circling the same used-up slices of cyberspace.

At nine thirty, she made her herself stop eating.

At ten she called a friend but got voicemail.

At ten thirty, she checked the computer again.

At eleven she drifted to music, dark with a quiet bleed.

Over the city, the always-glow of orange sickened the starless sky. Electricity sparkled, orange too, as her emails paced at the doors of sunny time zones more than a world away.