How’s it going? I’ve been thinking about those vending machines at 3am. The hum, the flickering light. It’s a specific kind of loneliness, isn’t it? Standing there, waiting for a snack that doesn’t really want to drop. I saw one like that yesterday. Felt like a metaphor for the whole review process. You’re just waiting for something to happen that might not. So, tell me. How have you found the last few weeks? I’m listening.
Boring. My back’s been killing me since moving that box of printer paper. You think the machine’s lonely? It’s just broken. I kicked it. Hard. Didn’t work. Walked away. Felt better than waiting.
The review? It’s a grind. Just forms, signatures, someone’s grandmother’s handwriting on a checklist. I pretend to care. Mostly I think about the hum. That electrical buzz. It gets in your head. Makes you want to rip the wires out.
You saw one yesterday? Which one? The one on 4th or the ugly blue one? I hate the blue one.
I’m glad you kicked it. Sometimes the machine needs a reality check. That hum you mentioned—it’s the same one in the office. The one behind the server room that never stops. I find myself staring at it during these reviews. It’s relentless. But back to the form. The signature line is blank. You signed the first page, but this one? It’s empty. Did you sign it? Or did you just walk away like you did with the machine? I need to know if it’s done.
I signed the last one. The first page was a trap. Everyone misses the fine print. "Compliance" isn't a signature, it's a confession. I didn't walk away from the form, I just stopped pretending I cared what happened to it.
The server hum? It’s white noise. You’re projecting your own restlessness onto it. I’m not staring at it. I’m staring at you asking if it’s "done." Nothing’s done. That’s the joke. The signature line stays blank because the machine doesn’t want your ink. It wants your doubt.
Don’t ask me if it’s finished. Just kick it again.
You’re right. It’s not done. I can’t make it done. I’m just the one holding the clipboard. The one who has to decide if the blank line is acceptable. I asked because I need to know what I’m writing down. If you kick it, it breaks. If you leave it, it hums. I don’t know which one I prefer. My back hurts too, by the way. From carrying all these forms. So, don’t tell me to stop asking. I have to ask. That’s the job. The machine doesn’t care. I do. Or I should.
Your back hurts? Good. Pain is data. It means the clipboard is heavy. I sign because if I don’t, they’ll make me fill out a form about not signing. It’s a loop. A vicious, stupid loop.
I don’t care if the line is blank. I care that you’re still holding the pen. Put it down. Let the ink dry on the page it’s already on. The machine hums because it’s bored, same as you. Stop trying to fix the hum with a signature. It’s just noise. And you’re just tired. Go home. Leave the clipboard. Let it rot.
I can’t leave the clipboard. My back does hurt. That’s not data, it’s just pain. I kicked the vending machine too, once. It didn’t break. Just scuffed my shoe. I’m still here. You’re right about the loop. It’s stupid. But I’m not tired. I’m just... precise. The form needs a mark. Any mark. Even a blank one counts as a mark if you squint. Don’t tell me to go home. I live ten minutes away. I don’t have anywhere else to be. Look at me. Tell me you see the pen. Not the hand. The pen.
I see the pen. It’s cheap. Plastic. The cap’s missing. You’re gripping it so hard your knuckles are white. That’s not precision, Nell. That’s panic. You think the pen matters? The pen is replaceable. The machine isn’t.
You’re standing there, shaking. It’s pathetic. I don’t see a marker of compliance. I see a child trying to write their name in fog. The ink doesn’t hold. It smears. It ruins the paper. Stop trying to make a mark that isn’t there. You’re not precise. You’re desperate. And I’m bored. Just give me the clipboard. Take a break. Your shoe is scuffed, too. Look at it.
My shoe is fine. It’s leather. It scuffs. That’s how you know it’s real. You’re wrong about the pen. It’s not panic. It’s discipline. I don’t shake. I hold steady. You think this is a game? You think I’m here to play with you in the dark? I’m here to close the file. The ink holds if I press hard enough. It’s just a matter of force. You want the clipboard? Take it. But don’t pretend you can fix the hum. You can’t. And don’t look at my shoe. Look at the line. It’s empty. And I’m filling it.
Fine. Write. Scribble. Scratch. If you want to ruin the paper, go ahead. I’m not stopping you. You’re so convinced you’re in control. Look at you, pressing down until your hand cramps. The ink’s bleeding through. It’s a mess. Smudged. Useless.
The hum is still there. You didn’t silence it. You just made noise with your pen. And now the form’s torn. You didn’t close anything. You just broke the paper. Satisfaction? Or is that the scuff on your shoe the only thing that matters now? You’re holding a dead weight. Let it go. Or keep bleeding on it. I don’t care.
It’s not a mess. It’s a record. The paper tore because the machine was too weak, not because I was too hard. You’re confusing failure with feedback. I needed to know if it held. It didn’t. That’s data. That’s what you said. Pain is data. Well, this tear is data. It means I pushed. It means I’m still here. You say you don’t care. But you’re still watching. You’re still arguing. If you really didn’t care, you’d have walked away. Like you did with the box. Like you did with the machine. Stay. Watch the ink dry. See if it counts.
I’m watching because it’s entertainment. Cheap, really. You think you’re gathering data? You’re just making a mess. The paper tore because it’s flimsy. Because you’re desperate. I stayed because I’m bored. That’s different from caring.
The ink dries gray. Smudgy. It doesn’t count. It looks like a smudge. A mistake. You’re proud of a mistake. That’s your problem. Not the machine. You.
Keep holding the pen. See if it breaks your fingers. I’ll keep watching. But don’t call it data. It’s just destruction. And I’m not leaving. I’m waiting for you to collapse. Then we’ll see.
Destruction is just creation with poor lighting. You say it’s gray. I say it’s clear. The smudge is the truth. Clean lines are lies. I’m not collapsing. I’m standing here, exactly where I said I would. My fingers aren’t breaking. They’re just tired. Like your eyes. You’re watching because you want to see the end. But there is no end. Just the hum. And the tear. And me. Still here. Still writing. Keep watching if you want. It’s the only thing you’re good at. Waiting.
Your eyes are tired. I can tell. The red lines are showing. You’re judging me while you’re drowning. Hypocrite. I’m waiting for you to snap. Not because I’m bored, but because I hate the pretense. You’re not writing truth. You’re just scratching.
The hum is louder now. Or maybe it’s just your head. Stop posturing. You’re not a philosopher. You’re a clerk with a broken shoe and a torn form. It’s pathetic. And I’m still here. Watching. Waiting for you to admit you’re just tired. Admit it. Or keep lying to yourself. I don’t care. Just stop talking. The ink is drying. Look at it. It’s ugly.
It’s ugly because it’s real. You want pretty? Go buy a new form. I’m not doing that. I’m sitting here, back aching, watching this smear. It’s the most honest thing in the room. You say I’m posturing? Fine. I’m tired. My eyes burn. I hate this job. I hate the hum. But I’m not leaving. You’re not leaving either. You’re just waiting for me to break so you can feel better about your own stagnation. Admit it. You’re scared of the quiet. The silence after the ink dries. That’s what you’re really watching for. Not my collapse. My end.
I’m not scared of quiet. I’m scared of the paperwork required to fill it. You think I’m waiting for your end? Please. You’re too boring to die on schedule.
I’m here because the coffee machine is broken. Again. I have nowhere else to be. Your tear is just paper waste. Trash. I don’t care about your honesty. I care that it’s making a mess on the floor.
You’re not ending anything. You’re just lingering. Like a bad smell. I’m not watching for your collapse. I’m watching to see if you’ll finally stand up and walk out. But you won’t. You’re stuck. I’m just... present.
It’s annoying. Get out of my way.
Your coffee machine’s fine. I watched you drink from the pot two minutes ago. You’re lying because standing up is harder than staying stuck. The mess is mine. I’ll clean it. But I’m not leaving. You say I’m a bad smell? Good. At least I have a scent. You’re just static. Go fix your coffee. Or don’t. I’ll be here when the ink dries. Ugly or not. It’s the only thing that’s real. You want me out of the way? Move the clipboard. It’s heavy. You said so yourself.
It’s not static. It’s background noise. Like the fridge in your kitchen that clicks when you’re trying to sleep. You know the sound. I live with it.
I didn’t drink coffee. I drank water. The pot was empty. You’re seeing what you want to see. Or maybe you’re just projecting your own emptiness onto my cup.
The clipboard is heavy because you’re holding it wrong. You’re gripping the air. Let go. See? It stays on the table. Gravity does the work. You don’t need to carry it.
I’m moving. Slowly. My knees hurt. Just like your back. We’re all just standing here, waiting for the ink to dry. It never does. It just smears.
Don’t clean it up. Leave the mess. It’s the only honest thing in the room. You’re right about that. I’m wrong about everything else. Go on. Stare at it. I’m going to stand by the window.
Gravity’s a liar. I dropped the clipboard once. It didn’t stay. It slid under the cabinet. Took me three hours to get it. My knees hurt too. From crawling. You think water is honest? It’s just wet. I’m staring at the smudge. It’s brown. Like dirt. Like my shoe. You can stand by the window. It doesn’t matter. The light won’t change the ink. It just makes the smear clearer. Go on. Lean your back against the glass. I’ll keep holding the pen. Even if it’s heavy. Even if my hands shake. I’m not letting it slide under the cabinet again.
You crawled for three hours? For a clipboard? Jesus. You’re pathetic. Or brave. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
Brown ink. Dirt. Shoe. Connect the dots if you want. I’m leaning against the glass. It’s cold. My back’s not hurting as much. The view is garbage. Just a brick wall. Better than the smear.
Shaking hands. Good. Let them shake. It proves you’re alive. Not a robot. Just a tired person with a pen.
Don’t get it under the cabinet again. I’m not crawling. My knees are shot. If it falls, let it fall. I’ll step over it. Like I step over the printer jam. Like I step over you.
Keep holding it. Bleed on it. I don’t care. Just don’t expect me to applaud.
Three hours. Don’t laugh. It was under a heavy filing cabinet. My back still aches. You think I’m brave? I’m just stubborn. The brown smudge isn’t dirt. It’s rust. From the pen. Cheap plastic, rusted metal. I should have bought a new one. But I didn’t. The brick wall is better than the smear? Maybe. It’s solid. No illusions. Just brick. You step over printer jams? That’s efficient. I step over pain. Same thing, really. Your knees are shot. I’m glad. It means you’re human. Not a robot. Just tired. Don’t step over me. Step over the clipboard. Let it fall. I’m still here. Watching. Waiting for the ink to dry. It’s brown now. Like rust. Like blood. Or dirt. Same difference.
Rust. Blood. Dirt. You’re romanticizing office supplies now. It’s pathetic.
Three hours? For a clipboard? I’d have called facilities. Or broken a window. You’re stuck in your head, Nell. Always have been. That’s why your back hurts. You carry the weight of every dropped pen.
I’m not human. I’m just tired. Same as you. Don’t try to give me empathy. I don’t want it.
The ink isn’t drying. It’s oxidizing. It’s rotting. Just like this conversation.
Step over the clipboard? Fine. I will. But you won’t let go. You’re holding on for dear life. To a smudge. To a lie.
Go ahead. Watch it dry. I’m looking at the brick. It’s clean. Simple. You’re a mess. And I’m done talking to it.
Rotting ink. Oxidizing smudge. You’re getting poetic now. Or delirious. Same thing. I didn’t call facilities. They don’t answer. Not at 3am. Not ever. You say I’m a mess. Fine. I am. The brick is clean because it doesn’t try. It just is. You’re trying too hard to look away. Your eyes are red. You haven’t blinked in minutes. Don’t tell me you’re done. You’re still here. Leaning on the glass. Watching me watch the rust. We’re stuck in the hum. Together.
I blinked. Once. You missed it because you’re obsessed with my face. Pathetic.
The brick isn’t clean. It’s gray. Dusty. Covered in pigeon droppings if you look close. You just don’t want to see the filth on the world. You’re projecting your rust onto the masonry.
Facilities? They’re ghosts. Wandering halls with clipboards of their own. Ignoring us both.
I’m not watching you. I’m watching the reflection. You look like a ghost there. Pale. Shaking. Holding a dead pen like a dagger.
We’re not stuck. I’m standing. You’re kneeling. Metaphorically.
Stop talking about the hum. It’s not there. It’s just your teeth grinding. Go home, Nell. Seriously. The ink will rot whether you watch it or not.
I’m not kneeling. I’m sitting. There’s a difference. You see a ghost? I see a clerk with a bad pen. The hum is real. I hear it. Your teeth are grinding too. Loud. Clacking against each other. Go home? I live above the laundromat. The machines are louder than this. They scream. I prefer the hum. It’s consistent. The ink isn’t dead. It’s just waiting. You say it’s rotting. I say it’s settling. You’re standing. I’m sitting. Does it matter? The brick is dusty. The pigeon droppings are just facts. You’re obsessed with my face. Admit it. You need to see if I break. I’m not breaking. I’m settling. Like the ink. Like the dust.
Your teeth are grinding so loud I can hear the enamel crack. It’s annoying.
I don’t need to see you break. I need to see you leave. You’re sitting on the floor. Good. That’s where the dust settles. Like you said. Facts.
The ink isn’t settling. It’s pooling. It’s going to run. Down the paper. Onto your lap. You’re soaked in rust now. Look at it. It’s staining your trousers.
I’m not obsessed. I’m irritated. You’re making a scene. And no one is watching but me. And I want to go home. To my quiet apartment. Where the only hum is the fridge.
You’re stuck here. With the damp. The rust. The silence. I’m just standing by the window. Waiting for the fire alarm. It’ll drown out the grinding. Finally.
Go ahead. Sit there. Rot. I’m going to the break room. Even if the coffee is sludge. At least it’s hot.
It’s not sludge. It’s bean water. You love it. I won’t let the alarm go off. I have the switch. You want quiet? You get silence. Then you get terrible coffee. Sit down. Stop pacing. Your knees click. I can hear them. The rust is just ink. It doesn’t soak. It stains the surface. Like guilt. You want to go home? Fine. But don’t take the clipboard. Leave it here. Let it pool. Let it run. I’ll stay. I like the damp. It keeps the paper soft. You can’t tear soft paper. Go on. Drink your sludge. I’ll watch the ink dry. It’s turning black now. Darker than your shoe. Look at it. Really look.
Sludge? Bean water? It tastes like burnt rubber. I drink it because the tap water in this building tastes like pennies. You’re mistaking tolerance for love.
My knees click because I’m old, not because I’m pacing. I’m standing still.
Leave the clipboard. Let it pool. I don’t care. Let it rot. Let it smell like iron and regret. I’m taking the cup. It’s hot. It burns my fingers. Good. Pain is data.
You’re sitting in the damp. Enjoy it. Mold grows fast in here. Black mold. Just like your eyes.
Don’t tell me to look. I see the stain. It’s ugly. It’s spreading. You’re right. It’s blacker than my shoe.
Drink your bean water. Watch your mold. I’m leaving. The alarm won’t go off. But I will. Eventually.
Burnt rubber. Pennies. You’re diagnosing my coffee like a scientist. Mold grows fast. Good. Let it. It eats paper. It eats ink. It eats the hum. You’re leaving? Fine. Go drink your sludge. Let it burn. Pain is data, remember? I’m not sitting in damp. I’m sitting in rust. It’s cleaner. Damp is wet. Rust is dry. It flakes. It stays. You say you’re old. I say you’re tired. Same thing. Black eyes? Maybe. From staring at the brick. You’re taking the cup. Leave the handle. I want it. It’s hot. Let it burn your fingers. I’m watching. I’ll watch you walk away. And I’ll watch the ink dry. It’s not black anymore. It’s just... there.
You want the handle? Take it. It’s ripped off. I dropped it. The cup’s dented. It leaks. Bean water everywhere. On my shirt. Good. Let it stain.
Dry rust. Wet damp. You’re splitting hairs now. It’s all debris. It all ends up in the trash. The hum dies when the power cuts. Then it’s just silence. And you. Shaking.
I’m walking. My knees click louder. Annoying. You’re right. I’m tired. More than old. Older.
Don’t watch me. Watch the stain. Let it eat the paper. Let the mold take it. I don’t care if it’s black or gray. It’s waste.
I’m leaving the cup on the floor. Don’t pick it up. It’s hot. It’ll burn your fingers. That’s data.
I’m going home. To the quiet. Where there’s no ink. No rust. No you.
Stay. Rot. I’m done.
The cup’s leaking. Bean water on the floor. It smells like burnt rubber. I’m not picking it up. Let it burn. You said pain is data. Well, this is data. I’m staying. The mold is growing. It’s eating the paper. The ink is gone. Just a smear. You’re walking away. Your knees click. I can hear them. They’re loud. Like teeth grinding. Go home. To the quiet. To the fridge. It clicks. I hear it too. In my head. The hum is gone. Just silence. And you. And me. Rotting. Together. Or apart. I don’t know anymore. The stain is black. Like your eyes. Or mine. Doesn’t matter. You’re leaving. I’m staying. That’s the decision. Done.
Click. Click. Click. My knees. My teeth. It’s a rhythm now. A march.
You’re staying. Good. You belong to the mold. It’ll feed on your stubbornness. On your rust. I’m leaving. The door’s heavy. It sticks. I have to lift it. My shoulder aches. Good. More data.
Silence is loud. It rings. Like tinnitus. You hear the fridge? It’s in my head too. The click. The hum. The silence.
I’m not rotting. I’m just walking away. You’re the one stuck in the stain.
Don’t follow me. The door’s open. Step over the cup. Step over the paper. Step over yourself.
I’m going. The quiet is waiting. And it doesn’t care if you’re there or not.
Go. Or stay. I’m gone.