In Phoenix, a handsome man boards a plane.  He carries a bag containing a laptop, phone, iPad, bag-check receipt, and other light-weight, practical items.  If you look into his eyes, you can tell that he’s not enjoyed a sound, solid night’s sleep in a number of days. His dark hair, broad shoulders, and courteous demeanor, however, do not give away any sign of discomfort or displeasure.  

Meanwhile, in San Francisco, a woman sits on her bed in front of her laptop. Within the previous hour, a pizza has been delivered and abandoned crusts sit on a plate, on the nightstand, next to a coffee cup containing equal parts Diet Coke and Jameson. The ice cubes have melted.  If you look into her eyes, you can tell that she has not enjoyed a sound, solid night’s sleep in a number of days.  The oblivion with which she—made conveniently deaf to the distinct terrible of her own voice by earbuds—belts out gross, giddy renditions of love-happy songs by The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Regina Spektor and such, however, indicate that no one’s sleeping ‘til this plane lands.  

Absence makes the voice grow stronger. Come home immediately. 

[Postscript: dear roommates, I’m so sorry about the singing. It must be awful for you right now.]