The nice thing is, Mac can get quite a lot accomplished while feeling dead inside. Coding doesn't destroy the abyss, but it doesn't get sucked in, which is more than can be said of the rest of her life. If she can acquire the wherewithal to open the editing environment, the upper surface of her mind kicks in with disregard for the nightmares below. The darkness howls, and she looks for syntax errors. It passes the time.
The funny thing is, she had been immune her whole life to those glinting beautiful jackals, to 09er money and charm, only to be cracked wide open by the short one with the wince. Before him, belt flasks and frosted hair were like evolution's personal gifts to her: warning labels. She doesn't know what a warning looks like now.
The ugly thing is, she hadn't really needed to sleep with him. He could turn her out from across the room, she hadn't even been looking his way. "You think you're smarter than me?" She always knew the answer to that question and it was always disappointing. Before him. For him, for the first time in her life, she had thought 'maybe I'm not.'
It had been delicious. It isn't anymore.