Her dreams were laced with superfluid helium. It crusted her body with ice, turning her blue. She circled lazily around gravitons on her roof, pelting the cadence of a two-syllable name, and the sound caused her eyelashes to flutter open.
It was always the ones that got away, she mused into her pillow as she flopped to her left side, her right, and left on the slab. At last she slept again, and the skin she wore blasted her into separate bubbles of time and space. Her body floated from one to the next in her multiverse, and she sighed as she searched for a hole in her own dimension to another space and time.
Until the body she was in began to itch, waking her. Sat up. Turned on the nightlight shaped like an owl by the analog machines, examined the mold just starting under her fingernails.
Like her body, the phone was plugged in next to the slab. She cursed her own stupidity as she picked it up, dialed Mischief’s number, and listened to the slow, sad music of his ringtone.
At last she hung up, wiped her eyes, climbed off the slab and tiptoed to the shower to unzip her skin.
