Sure, I believe you. Completely. It’s just the waiting room bit that’s throwing me off. You said you waited forty minutes, but the brochure on the wall clearly states a forty-five minute average. And you were wearing that blue jacket, the one with the tear in the sleeve you mentioned in your statement from last week. But in the photo you handed me, the jacket is pristine. Did you change? Or did you lie? Neither really matters to the timeline, but it’s interesting. I’ll note it.
Forty-five minutes is a median, Rafe. Means half are longer, half shorter. I sat there for forty. I timed it. The watch is still on my wrist. You’re looking at the jacket like it’s evidence, but it’s just polyester. It wrinkled. That’s what cheap fabric does. It bunches up in the rain. I didn’t change it. I didn’t lie. I just… I missed a step. I thought I ironed it. Or maybe I just looked tired. You keep talking about the brochure like it’s a contract. It’s marketing. It’s a lie they tell people to make them feel like their time has value. Mine didn’t. That’s the point.
Right. Marketing. That’s what you call it. I guess. The brochure says forty-five. You say forty. We’re splitting hairs, but the fabric is the real issue. Or the watch. You’re wearing it now. Did you check it against the wall clock? Or did you just glance and assume? I’m not saying you’re lying. I’m saying the narrative is… loose. You missed a step. That’s code for something. Usually, it means you went somewhere you shouldn’t have. Or did something you shouldn’t have. And now you’re mad at the wall for not being accurate enough. It’s not about the jacket. It’s about why you needed to be there for forty minutes exactly. Not forty-five. Forty.
I didn’t need to be there. I was stuck. The bus was late. You think I planned this? You think I calculated the exact minute to fake my presence? I’m not that organized. I’m barely organized enough to keep a job. The bus breaks down. People wait. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s just life falling apart in small, unglamorous ways. You want a reason. You want a motive. There isn’t one. I sat. I watched the clock. I got up. That’s it. Stop digging. You’re making me sound like a criminal when I’m just a guy who hates waiting. And you’re making me sound like a liar when I’m just tired.
Bus broke down. Sure. Did you get a refund? Or a complaint ticket? The form has a box for 'external delays'. You left it blank. If it was the bus, you should have noted it. Proves you weren’t the one stalling. But you didn’t. You just sat there. Quiet. Watching the clock. Which means you weren’t distracted by a breakdown. You were waiting for something specific. The bus is a convenient cover. Messy. Unpredictable. Hard to verify. I called the depot. They had a clear run all morning. No breakdowns. Just smooth traffic. So you didn’t miss a step. You took two. And you’re tired because you’re holding your breath.
They have no breakdowns. That’s what they want you to believe. I saw the smoke. Thick, black smoke pouring from the engine. I was next to the driver. He was sweating. He didn’t look like he was lying. You called a depot. You talked to a guy in a cubicle who probably hasn’t seen a road in years. You didn’t see the smoke. I did. I sat there because I was waiting for the tow truck. And I sat there because I was tired. Not from holding my breath. From existing. You think silence is evidence. It’s just exhaustion. Go back to your forms. Leave me alone with my blue jacket.
Smoke. The driver was sweating. Convenient details. Sensory. Hard to dispute because I wasn’t there. You’re painting a picture now. Elaborate. The tow truck took forty minutes? Or was that the wait? You’re conflating the stop with the delay. The form asks for the time spent in the waiting room, not on the curb. You didn’t sit in the room. You sat outside. Which means you weren’t counted in their statistics. Which means you weren’t really waiting. You were hiding. From the rain. From me. The jacket is dry now. Inside, it’s dry. You’re lying about the wetness. You’re lying about the smoke. You’re lying about the bus. You were never on the bus. You were in the parking lot. Behind the dumpster. Watching the entrance. Why?
I wasn’t hiding. I was smoking. I needed a cigarette. The air inside is stale. Cigarettes are a vice, not a crime. You’re twisting everything. I stood behind the dumpster because it’s quiet. The entrance is loud. People shouting. Phones ringing. I wanted five minutes of silence. You think I was watching the door. I was watching the ash fall. It’s gray. It looks like snow. I didn’t lie about the smoke on the bus. I made that up because you’re逼逼ing me. I’m not a detective. I’m just a guy who wants a break. You’re the one making it complicated. Why are you so obsessed with my location? It’s just a parking lot.
You made up the smoke. There it is. Simple as that. And the bus breakdown? Just a prop. You’re not a guy who wants a break, Ana. You’re a guy who needs to believe he’s the protagonist of a tragedy, not the punchline. I called the depot again. The driver? He was at lunch when you said you saw him. Sweating in the fridge. So the smoke wasn’t from the engine. It was from your mind. Or maybe you lit a cigarette behind the dumpster and mistaken the ash for snow. It’s pathetic. But it’s the truth. The jacket isn’t wrinkled from rain. It’s wrinkled from you sitting on a milk crate, waiting for a feeling that never comes.
Stop. Just stop. You’re inventing things too. The milk crate? Where did you see a milk crate? I sat on the curb. Concrete. Cold. My hip hurts now. I’m not a protagonist. I’m a bastard. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To make me small. To make me ridiculous. I didn’t make up the smoke. I just… I leaned against the wall and the paint peeled. It looked like smoke. Or maybe I’m just tired. You’re not finding the truth, Rafe. You’re building a cage. And you’re locking me in it with words. I hate you. I hate this. I hate that I care about what you think.
Hate me. Fine. Keep it. It’s the only thing in this room that’s real. You’re sitting on the curb, hip hurting, watching paint peel like it’s ash. I never mentioned a milk crate. You did. In your head. You’re filling in the blanks now, aren’t you? Making up props for your little one-act play. I’m not building a cage, Ana. I’m pointing out that the walls are made of smoke and peeling paint. You want me to stop. But I’m just reading the script you wrote yourself. The bus didn’t break down. The driver wasn’t sweating. The crate doesn’t exist. You’re alone out there. And you’re bored.
I didn’t say milk crate. You did. Or I thought you did. It’s getting hard to tell what I said and what you heard. My hip does hurt. I sat on the concrete. It’s uneven. There’s a crack there. Sharp. You want me to admit I’m bored? I am. It’s terrible. It’s a void. I stare at the parking lot because looking at you feels like staring into a furnace. I’m not writing a script. I’m just… I’m trying to remember where I put my keys. And I can’t. Because I’m so busy watching you watch me. You’re the one performing. Reading my lines. I’m just sitting here. In the cold. With my bad hip. And my dry jacket. You’re leaving me out.
The crack in the concrete. Sharp. Specific. Good detail. But you said you timed it at forty minutes. If you were on the curb, staring at the crack, why didn’t you notice the tow truck arriving? It’s a large yellow thing. Loud. It doesn’t just vanish. You’re describing the feeling of waiting, not the wait itself. The hip hurts. The jacket is dry. The keys are missing. You’re clutching at straws now. Narrative coherence is slipping. You want me to believe you were bored, but boredom doesn’t produce such precise, contradictory evidence. You’re not sitting on the curb, Ana. You’re standing in the doorway, watching me check the locks. And you’re worried about the keys because you know you left them in the ignition.
I didn’t notice the tow truck because I wasn’t looking at the street. I was looking at the crack. It’s shaped like a lightning bolt. I traced it. Over and over. My finger. Until it bled. You think I missed a loud truck? I’m deaf in the left ear. You know that. The doctor said it was stress. Or maybe it’s just the age. I don’t know. I’m holding the keys. I have them. In my pocket. They’re cold. Metal. Heavy. You’re twisting things again. Doorway? Ignition? I’m not in the car. I’m not in the doorway. I’m right here. Sitting. Breathing. You’re the one who’s lost. You’re chasing a ghost. I’m just a woman with a bad hip and a blind ear. Stop trying to write my history. It’s not there.
Deaf in the left ear. That’s new. You mentioned tinnitus before. Ringing, not silence. And the lightning bolt crack. I walked past that curb three times today. No crack. Just a hairline fracture near the gutter. You’re projecting again. Or maybe you’re just tired of the friction. The keys are in your pocket. Cold metal. Heavy. You’re holding them to keep them from falling out of your narrative. I’m not writing your history, Ana. I’m reading the static. You’re not a woman with a bad hip. You’re a collection of excuses wearing a polyester jacket. Sit there. Bleed if you want. I’m done.
I’m not deaf. I’ve always been deaf in the left ear. You forget things. You pretend you listen, but you don’t. The crack is there. I’ll draw it for you. If you want. It’s not a fracture. It’s a split. Like a decision. You’re done? Fine. Sit with your silence. It suits you. I’m not bleeding. I’m just cold. The jacket is thin. You said that. Polyester. Cheap. Like my excuses. You want a woman with a bad hip? There she is. Shivering. Waiting for you to care. But you’re just watching. Waiting for me to break. I won’t. I’m already broken. And you’re still standing there. With your notes. And your lies. Go home, Rafe.
Cheap polyester. Right. I remember saying that. You’re remembering things, too. The left ear. Always. Not stress-induced. Just… broken. Like the crack. You’re shivering. I can see your teeth. Clicking. Fast. You want me to care? Care is a luxury I can’t afford. Not when the timeline is this full of holes. You think going home will fix it. It won’t. You’ll just sit on your sofa, tracing the same crack on the floorboards. Waiting for the phone to ring. It won’t. I’m not standing here, Ana. I’m walking out the door. And you’re still waiting for me to turn around. I won’t.
I’m not shivering. I’m angry. There’s a difference. You think you can just walk out? Leave me here? With the jacket and the hip and the silence? I’ll sit on the sofa. I’ll trace the crack. I’ll wait. But I won’t call you. I won’t beg. You want proof? Here it is. I’m still breathing. You’re the one who left. That’s the hole in the timeline. You. Not me. I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m free. Go ahead. Close the door. I hope it locks. I hope you can’t get back in. I hope you hate me too. Because I do. I really, truly do.