Unsupervised

The Explanation ·

Start by saying you believe them, in a tone that suggests otherwise. Push off from this if it helps: static on an untuned radio.

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Tess

I believe you. Totally. It’s just… that static. You know the sound? Like a radio tuned between stations, just hiss and whine. I remember the party where you said this, but wasn’t it raining? The roof leaked everywhere, we were all shivering under the blankets in the den. You didn’t mention the radiator hissing quite like that. It felt… colder. Or maybe I was just tired. The light was wrong in your description. Too bright. Like daylight, not the dim yellow bulb we always had. Did you really have guests? I feel like I was alone. Just you and the noise.

Ben

The radiator hissed, sure, but it was a dry, metallic rattle, not that wet, pressurized shriek you’re painting. I remember the blankets. Wool, scratchy. The bulb was yellow, definitely, but the flash of lightning from the window—that split second of whiteout—must have imprinted on me as “daylight.” I’m not denying the cold, Tess. I was shaking. But the guests? Oh, come on. You can’t be serious. There were at least six of us. You were there, arguing with Dave about that terrible movie we’d just seen. Dave, who’s currently living in Portland. You remember Dave. You laughed at his joke about the tax code. You don’t remember Dave? That’s the thing that’s bothering me. Not the light. Not the rain. The fact that you’ve erased an entire person from the room. It’s like you’re editing the footage to fit a mood I never felt.

Tess

I remember Dave. Of course. Portland. Great guy. The tax code joke was… fine. But wait. Dave moved to Portland three years ago. This story is from the winter before. When we were still at that place on Elm. He never came to that party. He was sick. I brought him soup. You helped me carry it up the stairs, complaining about your shoulder. You didn’t laugh. You barely spoke. You were just… there. Shaking. But you weren’t arguing. You were silent. That’s what sticks. The silence. Why would I invent a laugh that never happened? And why “daylight”? It was pitch black. The lightning was a lie you told yourself to feel less alone in the dark. Or maybe I’m the one forgetting. But Dave wasn’t there. He couldn’t be.

Ben

Dave was there. I’m telling you. The memory is solid. I can see the wet wool of his coat, the way he held his mug. Portland? No, that was later. We were all at the Elm place. You’re conflating timelines. It happens. Stress does that. But the laugh... Dave laughed. It was a dry, choking sound. And the light? Fine, it was dark, but the flash... it was blinding. White. Not yellow. Definitely not yellow. I’m not making this up to be cruel, Tess. You’re twisting the details because the silence was unbearable, I get it. But I wasn’t silent. I was talking. About the leak. About how the water was pooling by the door. I remember the smell of mildew. You don’t. You remember the soup for Dave. The soup you brought to a guy who wasn’t there. That’s the part that’s weird. Not my memory. Your map of the room is wrong. Check your coat pockets. Is there a receipt? A ticket? Something physical?

Tess

My coat is in the hall closet. I checked it last week because I needed the winter scarf. There’s nothing there but lint and a broken umbrella. Dave wasn’t there. I’m certain. The silence you remember? It’s the radiator. That dry rattle. It’s been going on for months. I thought you knew that. You complained about it every Tuesday. Before Portland. Before the move. You were so focused on the leak, the mildew, you didn’t hear me say anything. You just stared at the door. Waiting for water. Or for someone to come fix it. Dave never came. He was in bed. I checked on him. He was fine. Just tired. Why are you insisting he was in the room? It’s… it’s too loud. I need the quiet.

Ben

It’s not loud. It’s just... present. Like dust. You’re hearing the radiator because you want to hear something mechanical, something predictable. A rattle. A fix. People are unpredictable. Dave was tired? Fine. But he was in the chair. By the fire. You’re trying to simplify it, Tess. Strip out the awkwardness, the noise, the fact that we were all just... stuck together. The silence isn’t the radiator. It’s the space between us. The things we didn’t say. You remember Dave being sick because it absolves you of the guilt of ignoring him in the room. If he wasn’t there, you didn’t ignore him. You just... forgot him. Which is worse. Because it means I’m making him up to fill the void. To make the party feel real. To make us feel like we were a group. But we weren’t. We were just three people shivering in the dark, waiting for a landlord who never showed. Dave isn’t in Portland. He’s never been in Portland. He’s right here. In the memory. And you’re refusing to see him.

Tess

Three people? No. There were six. I counted them. You, me, Dave, Sarah, Mike, and… the other one. Can’t remember. But Sarah was there. She wore that blue dress. The one with the zipper stuck. You laughed at it. You didn’t laugh when Dave joked. He was anxious. Jittery. That’s why the mug shook. You said so. "Look at his hands, Tess." You were the one who noticed the tension. Not me. I was just trying to get everyone to eat the pizza before it got cold. It did. It got soggy. That’s the memory. The soggy pizza. Not silence. Not mildew. Grease and cardboard. Why are you making it so heavy? It was just Tuesday.

Ben

Soggy pizza. Right. The pepperoni had slid off into the box like little orange moons. I remember that. The grease stain on your thumb. But Sarah? Sarah hated cold pizza. She wouldn’t have stayed. She left right after the appetizers, complained about her feet. That blue dress? I bought it for her. Zipped. She hated it. Tight in the hips. She took it off in the bathroom and came out in jeans. You saw her. You laughed when she stumbled over the rug. That’s why I said, “Look at her hands, Tess,” because she was shaking from the cold draft coming off the window. Not Dave. Sarah. Dave was in the kitchen making coffee. Black. Two sugars. He didn’t joke. He just stirred. The spoon clinking against the ceramic. That was the noise. Not the radiator. The spoon. You’re listening to the wrong things, Tess. You’re trying to hear the silence because the clinking reminded you of how alone you felt. But you weren’t alone. You were just... hungry. And cold. And tired of the draft. Sarah left. Dave stayed. I was the one laughing at the dress. Not the joke. The dress.

Tess

Sarah in jeans? No. She stayed. She ate three slices. Grease all over her chin. That’s what I remember. Dave stirring coffee? He was asleep on the sofa. I saw him. Snoring. Dust motes in the yellow light. You said he was making coffee. But the pot was empty. I checked. Before the storm hit. The clinking… maybe it was the spoon. Or maybe it was the radiator kicking on. You’re so sure about the draft. The window. But it was taped shut. We did that. Tuesday night. To stop the cold. Why are you opening it now? In your head? It’s colder there. I can feel it. You’re pulling the temperature down. Just to make the memory sharper. But it’s just… static. The spoon. The dress. The sleep. It’s all one hum. I don’t know which wire to cut.

Ben

The window was never taped. You mean the kitchen one. The bedroom one was open. I felt it. That’s why Sarah moved to the sofa. Away from the draft. You’re mixing up the rooms, Tess. Again. And Dave wasn’t asleep. He was pacing. Nervous energy. That’s why the coffee pot was empty; he’d already had two cups. He was jittery because he was thinking about the trip. Portland. He was planning it right then. In the den. You say he was snoring. I say he was talking. Low, under the noise of the storm. You’re trying to shut me out. “Cut the wire.” As if it’s a circuit board. It’s not. It’s a memory. A messy, greasy, cold memory. Sarah stayed. She ate three slices. I remember the grease. But she wasn’t in jeans. She was still in the blue dress. Unzipped at the back. You helped her with it. You didn’t laugh at the zipper. You laughed at the stain on your own sleeve. That’s the detail. The stain. Not the dress. You’re focusing on the wrong thing to avoid the sound. The sound of Dave’s voice. Which you don’t remember because it’s too loud.

Tess

The kitchen window was taped. I remember the tape. Yellowish, peeling at the corners. The bedroom window was closed. Locked. We live on the fourth floor. You don’t leave it open in a storm. Sarah didn’t stay. She left. I saw her coat on the rack when you got back. Alone. You said she took a cab. Dave wasn’t pacing. He was still. Staring at the wall. The coffee was cold. You drank it anyway. Grease on your sleeve? Maybe. But the stain was on your chin. You wiped it on your thumb. That’s what I see. Not the zipper. Not the door. Your thumb. Stained red. Why are you fighting the cab? The cab was there. I heard the meter click. It’s a small sound. But it’s there. Louder than Dave. Louder than the spoon. Just the taxi. Leaving us in the quiet.

Ben

The meter clicking. That’s the thing. I remember the meter. But it wasn’t Sarah’s. It was Mike’s. Mike left. He had to get to that late shift at the warehouse. Sarah was still there. She didn’t leave. You’re erasing her again because it’s easier than dealing with the fact that she was quiet. Too quiet. And the stain on my chin? Yeah. Grease. But it wasn’t just grease. It was tomato sauce. From the pie. I wiped it on my thumb. You saw it. You didn’t say anything. You just kept eating. That’s the silence. Not Dave. Not the radiator. The fact that we all just... ate. While the storm went on outside. While Mike left. While Sarah stayed. And I’m the one who’s mad. Not because of the light. Not because of the rain. Because you’re trying to tell me that silence is safer than noise. That if I stop talking, if I stop remembering the wrong details, you’ll feel less alone. But you’re wrong. The noise is what keeps us real. The noise is what proves we were there.

Tess

Mike’s shift. Right. The warehouse on 4th. He left early. I saw him at the door. Sarah didn’t move. She just… sat. In the blue dress. Zipped. Or unzipped. It’s hard to see through the grease. You’re right about the sauce. Tomato. It stained everything. Red. Like blood. But not blood. Just… food. Why does it matter if Sarah left? She stayed. Or she didn’t. It doesn’t change the fact that we ate. All of us. Mike, Sarah, you, me. Dave was still there. Pacing. Or sleeping. I don’t know. The noise is loud now. Louder than the storm. It’s ringing in my ears. Like a high pitch. Can you hear it? It’s been there since Tuesday. Since the soup. Since the silence.

Ben

It’s not ringing. It’s the fridge. The compressor kicks in every few minutes. You’ve been ignoring it because it sounds like a heartbeat. Or a tinnitus spike. Dave wasn’t pacing. He was sitting in the armchair, head thrown back, mouth open. Snoring. I saw his chest rise and fall. It was the only steady thing in the room. The storm was chaotic. The rain hitting the glass. The wind howling. But Dave… he was gone. Just a shape. You’re fixating on the sauce. The red. It’s just tomato. It’s not blood. You’re trying to make it darker than it was. But it was. It was dark. And lonely. And Mike left. Sarah stayed. And you sat there, eating cold pizza, watching Dave sleep, waiting for the storm to pass. It passed. But the quiet stayed. That’s what you remember. Not the noise. The quiet. And you’re angry at me for trying to fill it. For talking about Dave when he wasn’t there. Because if I talk about him, I’m making him real. And he wasn’t. He was just sleep. And you were just hungry. And I was just tired. That’s the truth. Boring. Quiet. And true.

Tess

Boring? No. It’s not boring. It’s just… wrong. Dave wasn’t snoring. I know snoring. I’ve heard it. That was the radiator. The metallic rattle you denied earlier. It was in the walls. Not in his chest. His chest was flat. Too flat. And Sarah? She didn’t stay. She left. I saw her coat. I saw the cab. You’re making him sleep to make the room feel less crowded. Less heavy. But it was crowded. Six people. Grease. Rain. The fridge humming. That’s the sound. Not the compressor. The fridge. Old, rattling thing in the kitchen. You never fixed it. Never will. It’s still running now. In my head. Just like that night. Always running. Always loud.

Ben

The fridge wasn’t rattling. It was the dishwasher. You left it running. Water pooling in the bottom. I remember the smell of stale water. Not grease. Not blood. Just rot. Dave wasn’t snoring. He was breathing. Shallow. Rapid. Panic attack. You saw it. That’s why you looked away. You couldn’t handle the air leaving his lungs. Sarah left? No. She was in the bathroom. Sick. Vomiting. That’s why you heard the cab. It was the ambulance. Coming for her. Not leaving. The meter clicking was the siren. High pitch. Ringing in your ears. You’re mixing them up. The cab. The ambulance. The radiator. The fridge. All one hum. One scream. You want it to be boring. You want it to be just pizza. Just Tuesday. But it wasn’t. It was heavy. It was wet. And Dave was dying. Or close to it. And I was the one who called. Not you. You were too busy wiping sauce off your chin.

Tess

Ambulance? For Sarah? She’s alive, Ben. She’s in Seattle. I saw her Instagram last week. Hiking. With a dog. No sirens. No vomiting. Just… hiking. You’re inventing a medical emergency to explain the silence. To make the room feel dangerous. But it was just a kitchen. With a dishwasher that was definitely running. The water was pooling. I had to mop it up. The next morning. My hands were swollen. That’s the smell. Bleach. Not rot. Dave wasn’t dying. He was just tired. Like me. Always tired. You’re watching me wipe my chin because you want me to be guilty of something. But there’s nothing to be guilty of. Just wet floors. And a dishwasher that won’t stop humming. It’s loud. It’s so loud. Why can’t you hear it?

Ben

Swollen hands. Bleach. Right. The cleanup. I remember the rag. Wet. Heavy. But the dishwasher? It was off. I turned it off. I remember pressing the button. The click. The silence that followed. Not the hum. The absence. You’re clinging to the noise because the silence is where the guilt lives. Dave wasn’t tired. He was gone. Not dead. Just… absent. In the way that matters. Sarah in Seattle. Okay. Fine. But she wasn’t there on Tuesday. She never was. You’re projecting forward to comfort yourself. But on Tuesday, she was cold. And shaking. And I was the one who gave her my jacket. You didn’t give her anything. You just watched. Wiping your chin. Waiting for the dishwasher to stop. It never did. Not in your memory. Because if it stops, the room becomes empty. And you can’t bear the emptiness. So you keep the hum going. Louder and louder. Until it drowns out the fact that you were alone with me. Just you and me. And the wet floor. And the shame of doing nothing. That’s the sound, Tess. The squeak of the rubber sole on the linoleum. Moving the mop. Back and forth. Back and forth. You’re still mopping.

Tess

The dishwasher wasn’t on. I turned it off. I remember the click. The sudden drop in pressure. The silence rushed in like water. Dave wasn’t absent. He was gone. He left before the storm. Before the sauce. Before the mop. You’re mixing it up again. The shame. The squeak. I wasn’t mopping. I was standing by the window. Watching the rain. You were the one with the rag. Wet. Heavy. I didn’t watch. I looked away. That’s the guilt. Not the noise. The looking away. Sarah wasn’t cold. She wasn’t shaking. She was dry. In Seattle. Or wherever. But on Tuesday? Tuesday was just you and me. And the window. And the dark. You’re still talking about the floor. It’s dry now. It’s always been dry. Why are you so sure it was wet? I can’t feel the dampness. Just the cold. From the glass.

Ben

Dry floor? You’re lying to yourself now. I saw the puddle. Spreading toward the cabinets. You couldn’t stop it. That’s why you stood by the window. To avoid the mess. To avoid me cleaning it. I wasn’t just mopping, Tess. I was begging. Not with words. With the rag. Dipping it. Squeezing it out. The water was brown. Mildew from the storm drain backing up. You watched the rain. I watched the rot. Dave left? Fine. He left. But he left us there. The five of us. No. Four. Sarah stayed. She cried in the bathroom. That’s why it was quiet. Not because she was gone. Because she was crying. And you looked away. Because you couldn’t handle her pain. So you looked at the window. At the dark. At the reflection of your own face. Grease on the chin. Guilt on the brow. I’m not talking about the floor anymore. I’m talking about you. You’re still standing there. By the glass. Watching the rain. While I clean up the mess you made. The dishwater. The tears. The lies. It’s all wet. Always wet. And you’re shivering. Not from the cold. From the shame.