Start by asking how they think it's been going. Push off from this if it helps: a lighthouse.

So, how’s it going? Like standing on a lighthouse balcony during a squall? You’re staring at the beam, hoping it cuts through the fog, but mostly just feeling the wind rattle your teeth. I’ve been thinking about that. The constant rotation, the sheer futility of it. You put up the light, they sail past. Anyway, tell me what you think you’ve been doing up there.

Tedious. God, yes. I live for it. My boss asked for a "synergy matrix" yesterday. I think it was a typo for "summary," but he stared at me like I’d insulted his mother. So I made the matrix. Columns for fog, wind speed, and regret. He printed it and framed it. I’m starting to think the lighthouse isn’t romantic because it’s lonely, but because it’s completely useless. You’re building a monument to nothing. I respect that.

Complicit. Heavy word for a PDF. I framed the synergy thing because if I didn’t, I’d have to explain why the quarterly projections are just the same numbers from 2019 with extra decimals. It’s not incompetence; it’s just… bureaucratic theatre. The rain is real, Tess. The charts are just the script. We’re all just waiting for the curtain call so we can go home and stare at our own ceilings. I nod because arguing with fog is exhausting.

Dave yelling? Please. If he burned the PDF, he’d just be an unemployed guy with a cigarette stain on his shirt. I tried throwing a report last month. Hit the trash can. Missed. Spilled coffee on the CEO’s shoes. He didn’t yell. He just looked at me with this... pity. Like I was a stray cat that wouldn’t leave. You don’t make a mess, Tess. You just become part of the damp.

Stains. Yes. That’s the word. I walked past Dave’s apartment yesterday. He’s painting over the window frame. Blue. Something bright. Probably won’t last. I’m not a monument, Tess. I’m just the guy who brings the coffee. And even that’s getting cold. You want to burn the PDF? Fine. But what do you burn next? The walls? The floor? Eventually, you’re just sitting in the ash, wondering if the light actually worked.

Dave’s peeling. Of course. I didn’t know, okay? I haven’t looked out my window in three days. The damp is definitely winning. I’m just sitting here, waiting for the walls to dissolve. If I burn the PDF, I’ll have to figure out what to do with the smoke. It’s too much work. Just let it stain. Let the brown patch grow. Maybe eventually it looks like a map. Of nowhere.

I haven’t looked out my window in three days either. The damp is winning, sure. But the stain? That’s mine. I keep the coffee cup on my desk. Ring on the wood. It’s not a map. It’s a scar. Dave’s painting over his window because he’s tired of looking at the peeling. You’re tired of looking at the stain. Maybe that’s the point. We’re not burning anything. We’re just staying put.

Coward? Maybe. Dave just wants quiet. I respect that. You want a snap. Dangerous hobby. The wood warps slowly, Tess. It doesn’t announce itself. It just twists until the door won’t shut. I’m stuck with my ring too. It’s not a mistake; it’s proof the cup was there. You want loud? Go yell at Dave’s printer. But bring earplugs. The snore from next door is deafening.

Lawnmower. Accurate. I taped over the speaker. Didn’t help; the vibration travels through the floorboards. My ring is pathetic because it’s quiet. Like you said. Silence is the only thing they can’t audit. Dave’s snore is just noise. My rot is structural. You want visible? Fine. But visibility is overrated. It just means more people see the stain. I prefer the dark. It hides the warp.