A quietude enveloped the woman—she had done what she set out to do. Looking vacantly into the screen in her lap, miles away, it didn't bother her as relentlessly as she suspected. She had poured herself a liberal drink, feeling like it was only right to drink in a situation where grieving seemed appropriate.
She looked in the drawers if her desk, hoping for a wayward cigarette in an old pack - remnants from a time when she wasn't concerned with tomorrow—ten years later. She kind of felt like that right now.
After her drink was half-drunk, she felt the slow warmth from the alcohol, but, if she was being honest with herself, she didn't really feel like finishing it.
She opened the screen—at who was online, what was trending, where people were checking in—and was reminded abruptly—violently—of the reason she was supposed to grieve.
She takes a perfunctory sip of the drink previously relegated undesired, and enjoys it once more before satiation strikes and it's abandoned again.
