THE DRIFT OF THE FOAM CUP

Dear Delyara, It is 1:40 AM, and an empty polystyrene coffee cup is slowly drifting across the flooded patch of gravel near the main generator. The wind keeps catching its rim, spinning it in small, erratic circles through the oily scum on top of the puddle. I'm trying to draft the layout for our upcoming subscriber interface on a piece of scrap cardboard, but my eyes keep locking onto that white plastic cone dancing in the dark. Out here, you are hyper-focused on anything that moves just to break up the static. The air tonight smells intensely of wet soot and old grease. I pulled my collar tighter around my throat, pushed my notebook flat against the metal desk, and forced myself to look away from the yard.