Not quite 88 keys

Order a glass of water. Ice. No lemon. Take a sip of your surroundings and try to recognize them. The chairs smell mahogany. The air tastes like peppermint and fresh arugula. 84th street is classier than iceberg. It's comforting and intellectual. And yet, something about it sounds like Berlin. She can't shake it.

It hasn't gone away. The morphine addiction. A psychological rehabilitation of soul isn't as simple as sow and stitch. Three years ago she pressed a button every 60 seconds to make the pain stop. Three years ago she pressed a button and the stranger came and held her hand. Today it's 32 advils and an empty palm.

I feel alive. I think it's the insomnia. The world is beautiful when you're in half state, when you're reaching for it. It's ambrosia atop Olympus as long as you're still climbing.

She's learning to stand up for herself. It's a process. Everyone is telling her she needs to learn how to say no. Not to them, of course, but in general.

Priorities are a funny thing. The wrong swatch of color can be the end of someone's world. The right swatch tends to be the end of hers. It's why she sabotages. It gives her edge.

I propose a toast. To effervescence.