Substance

She closed the door quietly behind herself as she reentered the apartment.  Part of her wanted to slide along the door and collapse on the concrete flooring, putting her head in her hands.  People often did that in movies when they couldn't deal with the situation outside.  But she restrained herself, and went to sit on the couch instead.  

There had been a heavy breeze on the roof of the apartment, and it had turned her long black hair into a thousand bird nests.  Her fingers got stuck in it when she tried to get the tangles out.  Wind always made her feel tangled, and when others remarked how invigorating a cool breeze could be on their cheeks, she usually said she felt like a homeless woman, or that she was stuck in Siberia.  She burrowed into the couch cushions, pulling her sweatshirt over her knees and considering how many minutes of solitude she could get away with.  

There was another full bottle of red wine sitting on the kitchen counter, beckoning to her.  She was already feeling the last few glasses, but her hands still felt stiff and shaky, and if more wine could make the minutes drip by more smoothly, then maybe she could go back outside and finish the evening without incident.  She got up, backing around the bottle, to search for wine glasses in unfamiliar cabinets.  She opened them one by one, gingerly, and finding the glasses, set one next to the wine.  Once free, the liquid spilled out thick and oily, a cheep wine, as usual.  She didn't like the flavor of wine, good or bad, and this depressed her, so accentuating her dependence on the substance, her dependence on escape.  She downed the glass in a few long pulls, and, feeling more pleasantly disconnected, ascended again.