So you said you were at the pool till close, right, and municipal ones round here shut at eight — I looked it up after, don't ask me why — but then you're texting Marko at quarter past seven saying you're still ten minutes out. Which doesn't — that's forty minutes unaccounted, unless you left early and just didn't say. Not a big deal. I just noticed it sitting there.
Marko doesn't count. That's the thing. I was there till they started mopping, sure. The pool, the chlorine, the boredom. But the text? That was later. A mistake. Time slips. You know how it is. Forty minutes? Maybe I stopped for a soda. Maybe the app's just wrong. It's fine. Let it go. I'm not trying to hide anything. Just tired.
"Marko doesn't count" — count for what, though? You said that like it's a category. I'm not trying to pin you on a soda run, genuinely don't care about that. It's more the stacking — mopping means near closing, then a mistaken text with a timestamp that isn't a guess, apps log that stuff pretty precisely. You can say you don't remember. That's different from the app being wrong. I'd believe "I don't remember" a lot easier.
It's not a category. It's just him. He's nobody. I told you the app's wrong. That's it. Don't make it a thing. I don't remember because I was drained. The text is garbage data. Stop staring at the screen like it's a clue. It's not. Just drop it.
I'm not staring at anything, I'm just repeating back what you told me twenty minutes ago, that's all a timestamp is. And I didn't say drop it wasn't fine — you're the one who keeps circling back to defend it. Nobody accused you of a crime, Tess. "He's nobody" and "the app's garbage" in the same breath is a lot of certainty for something you also don't remember. Pick one. I'll wait.
I'm not defending anything. I'm telling you the app is wrong. Marko's text is just noise. Stop twisting it. If you need a crime, invent one. I'm going home. The pool water is in my ears.
No crime needed, that's the part you keep supplying. I'm not twisting anything, I'm just not great at unhearing "he's nobody" said twice like a rehearsed line. Go home, dry your ears out. But you brought Marko up first — I didn't. That's the bit I'll still be thinking about after you've gone.
I brought him up because he was there. He was just a name. You're making a puzzle out of nothing. It was a glitch. I'm leaving.
"He was just a name" and "he was there" aren't the same sentence, but fine — leave. I'm not making a puzzle, I'm just noting you gave me three different explanations for one text in about four minutes. Glitch, garbage, mistake. Pick a lane next time and I'll believe the first one you say instead of the third.
Fine. I'm done explaining. You want a lane? There isn't one. Just go.
Alright. I'm not chasing you round a swimming pool over a text message. Go dry off. I'll be around when whoever's coming back gets here — I'm not going anywhere either.
Good. Just sit there. Don't wait for me.
Wasn't planning to. Sitting's the part I'm good at.
You're too good at it. Makes everything look suspicious. I'm gone. Don't look for me.
Not looking. Just remembering. Different thing, apparently — you'd know.
Yeah, I know. Too much remembering. Make it stop.
Can't help you there. It doesn't stop, it just gets quieter till someone asks about a text at quarter past seven.
Then don't ask. The silence is better. Just let it be quiet.
Fine by me. I'll be quiet. Doesn't mean I forgot the question, it just means I'm not saying it out loud again till you're back in the room and someone else is here to hear it too.
Someone else? There's no one else. Just you and me and the empty chairs. Stop waiting for a crowd that isn't coming. The silence is already here.
There were three cups on that table twenty minutes ago. I didn't imagine those. Somebody poured them. You can say it's just us if it makes the quiet easier, but I'm not the one who needs the story to be smaller than it is right now.
Three cups? One was for you. One for me. One spilled before we sat down. You're seeing ghosts in the stain. It's just water. Dry it up. Stop counting things that aren't there.
A spill doesn't need its own cup, Tess. Somebody set that third one down deliberate, on a coaster, and you know it. You're doing the same thing with the cups you did with Marko — turning a fact into a mess so I stop looking at it. I'll dry it up if you want. Doesn't mean I didn't see it first.
It wasn't a cup. It was a glass of water I forgot to move. You're making it mean something. It doesn't. Stop digging.
A minute ago it was a spill, now it's a glass you forgot. That's two stories for one glass, same as the text. I'm not digging, I'm just bad at not noticing when the ground keeps shifting under something you called nothing.
It was a glass. You moved it. I forgot. Stop listing me like a suspect. The ground isn't shifting, you're just moving the pieces. Sit down. Be quiet.
I never touched the glass. That's yours, not mine. Sitting down, going quiet — but the version where I moved it is a new one too. Four so far, if anyone's counting. I'm not saying it to needle you. I just keep hearing them stack.
I didn't move it. You're inventing movements to fill the gap. There are no gaps. It's just a glass on a table. Stop counting. It's done.
Okay. It's a glass, it's done, no gaps. I'll leave it right there on the table, same as it was before anyone touched it or didn't. Whoever's coming back can look at it fresh. Maybe they see just a glass. I'm not going to be the one arguing about water all night.
Good. They'll see a glass. Not a story. Just a glass. You did the right thing. Walking away.
I didn't say I was walking away. I said I'd stop arguing about it — different thing, you're good at collapsing those together. I'm still here. Still sitting. Still going to mention the glass when they walk back in, because that's just what happened, not a story I'm building.
Fine. Tell them. I don't care. It's just a glass. But they won't care either. They never do. Just sit. Stop talking.
"They never do" — that's an odd thing to know in advance about someone you haven't met yet. I'll sit. I'll stop talking. But that one's going in the pile too.
You want a pile? Make one. I'm not in it. They won't care about the glass. They won't care about me. Just sit there. Stop talking.
Alright. Sitting.
Good. Don't move. Don't speak. The glass is just glass. That's all.