Fingers

She was a percussionist, tapping away at her craft with an electric beat. Sound flowed into language and her shoulders shrugged in deeper, coaxing out the rhythm as she swayed. The music was a part of her, and she fed into it with a manic energy. It moved her and she moved, more than she'd ever admit. She nodded her head and swiveled her hips in a swivel chair. She was in the music of her fingerfalls, and loved it.

In an electric world, she was a composer of some renown. Her keystrokes were the bass beat of an anonymous audience, a roaring mosh of analog appreciation in a digital forum. She told stories. She lived lives. She solved. Always, she solved. When she gamed, she managed resources like a general. When she blogged, she plucked the heartstrings against the street noise of net ADD and web OCD.

Here, like mostly anywhere else, she solved. She was in the know, and they loved her for sharing. She didn't, really, but that was to be expected. She gave them teases and they gave her links and likes and more eyes to dazzle with her water-ripple waves of information.

Even out of her stiff suit, she was primed to solve. She couldn't stop. More, she couldn't see the solutions for the show. She never even knew she was still working. It was under her fingertips, even when they were raw to bleed.

She solved in her sleep. Her dreams were conquered. She was her own piper, and she only led herself deeper into the solve. Always, into the solve.