Vanessa took another slow pull of hookah and gazed out at the dark skyline as she held in the ferocious flavor. The latest Mermaid's Flower album was pulsing quietly inside, and even from the balcony she could hear its dark, velvet rhythms. She exhaled: a plume of smoke poured out of her nose. The heady, rich sensation streamed through her, lifted her off the ground. She breathed in contented, deep sighs. The lights were turned off. She was untethered. It was about time she had a night to herself.

The city glittered in front of her, a map of lights that led nowhere. It sang its nightly song. Sirens sounded in the distance, and a man, five stories down, smashed a glass bottle in the street and cackled. A car door slammed. Horns blasted impatiently, drivers roaring down her street only to stagger to a stop at the light one block down. She thought about going inside, but decided against it, instead letting the environment wash over her.

Varun was gone for the weekend, some business trip up north. Something for school. He was sketchy on the details but she appreciated that; most of what he told her was lost anyway. She had no head for business. She just liked to paint. She never showed Varun most of her work, and she supposed he probably appreciated that too. He would always point to Da Vinci or Michelangelo as examples of art; Rothko or de Kooning seemed to him evidence of the imminent breakdown of civilization. She took another long draught of that delicious, swirling hookah.

Vanessa's eyes drooped in pleasure. She waited for the headache to tell her she'd done too much. Nothing yet. A year ago, two years ago, she'd never have thought she'd be doing this. One of her exes loved smoking and to please him she'd given it a try. And now I've officially become my sister, she remembered saying. Why had she said that? She barely knew her sister nowadays.

The hard pain in her stomach had returned suddenly, like a penny wrapped in rags. She kept putting that off. Varun dismissed it, always saying it was probably just something she had eaten. She didn't know one way or the other.

Her broken friendship with Andrea lay like an anchor on her mind. It was her birthday today and Vanessa had called. No answer, to her relief. She was not ready to admit they'd grown apart, could not relate to one another's lives. They were on opposite sides of the country now, with vastly different priorities. Andrea was married to some blob from their hometown and worked for Stateland. Vanessa was a freelancer on the coast. For ten years they pretended they were as close as they once were but they both knew the truth.

Vanessa coughed. The headache was coming. She never had restraint. She drank too deeply from everything. She stared at the skyline, now a collection of unfocused lights, and reflected on the quiet tragedy of adulthood.