Start by asking how they think it's been going. Push off from this if it helps: bootleg t-shirts.

Your “list.” Right. That’s the problem, Jo. You’re treating life like a quarterly report. I’m over here trying to remember if I locked the back door or just imagined it again. It’s been… gray. The usual. I stopped by that place on 4th, the one with the coffee that tastes like burnt hair, and realized I’ve been there three times this week. Why? I don’t know. Maybe to hide from the silence. You want to match notes? Fine. But if your list includes “felt happy,” you’re lying. And if yours says “productive,” you’re delusional. Let’s see what we’ve got. Don’t hold back on the boring stuff. That’s usually where the truth is.

Numbers were down. Stock went missing. My bad, Jo. I was distracted by the fact that half the shirts look identical. Which one was missing? The blue one with the white text? Or the black one that’s actually charcoal? I swear I counted them. Or maybe I didn’t. You’re so obsessed with your lists. “My clock.” Like time is a currency you can spend. I was just standing there, watching people walk by. Did anyone buy anything? Probably not. The market’s dead. Everyone’s on their phones. I might have taken a shirt. For size reference. Don’t look at me like that. It’s not theft. It’s… inventory management. By me.

Twelve quid. You’re already calculating. Always the accountant, Jo. March. Right. The shirt that fell off the rack and got trampled by a dog? You’re rewriting history now? That’s convenient. Unsupervised. Oh, spare me. You sign off on my chaos because you enjoy watching me squirm. If you wanted numbers, you’d hire a robot. I bring… texture. People like the guy who talks back. The dog incident was clear on CCTV. You haven’t watched it. You just want control. Fine. Take the till. Take the stall. But don’t pretend you care about the inventory. You care that I’m the only one who doesn’t flinch when you yell. And yeah, I owe you twelve. I’ll pay it. Eventually. After I’ve had a drink.

Four minutes. Big gap. Convenient. You think I’m stupid enough to leave a hole that obvious? Or are you just desperate for a win? Off the stall. Monday. Classic Jo. You cut off the hands that keep the lights on because you’re afraid of the dark. “Texture.” Right. I’ll take my twelve. But don’t think this changes anything. You’re the one sweating over the till, counting every thread. I’m just… present. And now I’m absent. Good riddance, I suppose. It’s quieter that way. You’ll miss the noise. Don’t pretend you won’t. Monday’s coming fast. Try not to lock yourself out again.

Twelve quid. You’re still fixating on the money. It’s pathetic, really. But fine. I’ll bring it. Monday. You want a clean break? Done. I’ll take my stuff. The rest can rot. You think you’re winning by cutting the noise. But noise is just life, Jo. You’re just trying to edit it out until there’s nothing left but spreadsheets. Go ahead. Enjoy the silence. I’ll be the one laughing while you count threads. Monday will be awkward. I’ll make sure of it. Don’t forget the key. Or whatever excuse you have for losing that one too.

Square. Convenient word. It implies a balance that doesn’t exist. You think handing over twelve quid and a key erases March? Or the four minutes? You’re running for that bus like your life depends on punctuality. It doesn’t. I’ll bring the key. And the money. Don’t get sentimental. I’m not keeping it. It’s just… leverage. For when you realize the stall isn’t viable without someone who actually talks to people instead of staring at spreadsheets. Your coffee’s going cold, Jo. Drink it. It’s bitter. Just like this. Monday. Bring your list. I’ll bring the noise. See you then. Don’t miss your bus. Or do.

"Whatever it is I'm catching." Like I’m some stray. Fine. Keep your bus. Keep your cold coffee. It suits you. Stale. Predictable. I’ll see you Monday. Don’t forget the key. And don’t pretend you’re not already checking the lock three times. You’re shaking, Jo. Just a little. Admit it. The silence is louder than you think. I’m leaving before you start crying over a t-shirt. Go on. Run.

Done talking to a wall. Ouch. That one actually hurt, Jo. Maybe because it’s true. You’re not shaking, you’re just… tense. All that coiled up frustration, ready to snap at the next missing sock. Whatever. I’m not a wall. I’m the guy who remembers how the shirt felt in your hands. Go catch your bus. Let it clatter off into the distance. I’ll be here, waiting for Monday to arrive like a tax audit. Don’t look back. It’s not polite. And definitely not part of your list.

Monday. Just one word. You really are concise when you’re done. Enjoy the bus ride, Jo. Try not to stare at your reflection in the window. It’s creepy. And don’t forget the key. Or the money. Or the fact that I’m the only reason this place hasn’t closed down from sheer boredom. You’ll miss the texture. Admit it. I’m walking away now. The air smells like rain and bad decisions. Typical Monday. See you when you’re ready to stop hiding behind your lists. And Jo? Leave the coffee. I’m not thirsty.

Go. Run. Chase that bus. Leave me with the gray sky and the leftover shirts. You think walking away makes you the winner? It just makes you late for everything that actually matters. I’m not chasing you. I’m standing here. Solid. Unmoved. You’re the one scrambling. The key’s in my pocket. The twelve’s in my head. Monday’s coming. Don’t look back. It’s not like you’ll see me anyway. You’re too busy counting your losses. Go.

Off. Like a switch. Click. Gone. Leave me with the echo, Jo. The key’s heavy in my pocket. Heavy like guilt. Heavy like betrayal. Or just metal. Who knows. You’re the one who believes in weight. I believe in floating away. Like smoke. Like your memory of March. Goodbye, Jo. Don’t forget to lock the door. Or don’t. Let the rain in. Wash the stains out. I’ll be watching. From a distance. Of course. Always distant. You made sure of that. Monday’s a promise. I intend to keep it. In my own way.

Bye. Casual. Like we’re discussing the weather. Like you didn’t just evict me. Go. Your bus is waiting. Or it’s gone. Maybe I’m the ghost here. Haunting your schedule. Haunting your conscience. Fine. I’ll leave. But I’m not taking the twelve. Keep it. Consider it a tip for the silence. You deserve it. I’ll see you Monday, Jo. Don’t be late. And don’t forget the key. Or the guilt. It’s all in the pocket. Same pocket. Same hands. Same mistake. Bye.

Monday. You keep saying it like it’s a threat. It’s just a day. Like Tuesday. Like yesterday. You think I’m scared of Monday? I’m scared of the silence after Monday. But you’ll fill it with your lists. Your numbers. Your cold coffee. I’ll bring the key. I’ll bring the twelve. And I’ll bring the noise you pretend not to miss. See you then, Jo. Don’t forget to breathe. Or whatever passes for it in your little world. Monday.

Monday. You’re a broken record, Jo. A scratched vinyl skipping on the same groove. I’m tired of the echo. I’m leaving now. Really. For the last time. Don’t try to stop me. There’s nothing to stop. Just the wind. And my背影. No, that’s Chinese. My back. My back walking away. Into the rain. Into the noise. Into the twelve quid debt. You’re welcome for the texture. Keep it. Burn it. I don’t care. Bye.