Unsupervised

The Review ·

Open by saying this is really just a formality. Push off from this if it helps: municipal swimming pools.

hanaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit marcQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modeappraisal voices Pedantic

Hana

Look, Marc, let’s be honest. This is really just a formality. We’re both going through the motions because the system demands it, not because there’s actually anything to decide. I’ve already filled out the paperwork in my head. Remember those municipal pools? The ones that smell like chlorine and regret? That’s what this feels like. Standing here, pretending we’re evaluating something real. It’s all just water. Cold, chemically balanced water. I don’t care if you swam laps or just floated. The tank is empty anyway. I’m signing off on it because I have to, but don’t mistake compliance for approval. I’m already late for my next meeting, and frankly, I don’t have the energy to pretend this matters more than it does. Just sign the dotted line. Let’s go.

Marc

You’re exhausting, Hana. Always turning everything into some grand metaphor about emptiness. It’s not a municipal pool; it’s a zoning review for a new condo development downtown. Concrete and glass. Boring, yes, but not tragic. You think I care about your "regret"? I just want to go home to my cat, Barnaby, who currently hates me for leaving early last Tuesday. He’s judging me from the windowsill. Again.

Anyway, I don’t need your permission to sign off on my own hours. And don’t lecture me about energy. I spent eight hours listening to Gary from Accounting explain why we need a new stapler protocol. That’s the real tragedy. Not your performative apathy. Just sign your name. Or don’t. The building inspector doesn’t care about our little drama. He cares about load-bearing walls. Which, frankly, seem more interesting than you right now.

Hana

Barnaby hates you. Classic. You leave him for six hours and suddenly he’s the judge, jury, and executioner. Enjoy the guilt trip; it’s the only emotion you’ll get out of this building inspection. And yes, Gary from Accounting is a soul-crushing void of human interaction, but at least he doesn’t pretend to care about structural integrity. Load-bearing walls are honest, Marc. They hold up or they don’t. Unlike your argument about zoning. You think concrete is boring because you’re too tired to see the geometry. I’m not signing off on it because I don’t trust your eye for detail, or because I think you’ll forget to check the drainage specs again. Just sign it. Before I change my mind and make you re-read the pavement thickness regulations. For an hour.

Marc

Gary’s stapler protocol is a conspiracy to drain the accounting department’s morale, not just their money. But fine. Let’s talk geometry. You think I don’t see the beauty in a well-placed beam? I spent three years trying to love architecture before I realized I was better at hating it. Barnaby isn’t “judging” me; he’s starving because I forgot to buy the expensive salmon pate. The kind with the little flakes of real tuna. Which costs more than your hourly wage, by the way.

And don’t threaten me with pavement thickness. I checked the specs. They’re adequate. Barely. But adequate is all the code requires. You’re obsessed with details that don’t exist. There is no drainage issue. I looked. Twice. So, sign the paper, Hana. Or don’t. I’ll just tell Barnaby you were mean. He has a short memory, but a long leash. Literally.

Hana

You spent three years hating architecture? That explains the cynicism. Must be exhausting, building your career on a foundation of disdain. And spare me the Barnaby bribery. I don’t care about his palate, or your pathetic attempts to weaponize a cat’s judgment. He’s probably eating dry kibble anyway; you’re too cheap for the tuna flakes. Though, given your spending habits on useless office supplies, who knows? I checked the specs too, Marc. I checked them while I was pretending to listen to Gary drone on about staplers. The drainage is fine. The structure is fine. The premise is a waste of my time. But I’m signing. Not because you’re right, but because I need to leave before I start questioning why we even have zoning boards that function like this. Sign your name. Let’s go. I have a meeting with a landlord who actually understands friction.

Marc

Friction is the only thing that proves you’re not sliding off the edge of the earth. Fine. I’ll sign. But don’t think I didn’t notice you checking the specs while Gary talked. You’re just as obsessed with the useless details as I am. Maybe we’re the same kind of broken.

Barnaby eats the salmon pate. Every Tuesday. It’s a non-negotiable ritual. I don’t buy it because I’m cheap; I buy it because if I don’t, he vomits on the rug. And I’m not cleaning that up again. Not today. Not ever.

Go see your landlord. Try to explain load-bearing walls to him. See how far you get. I’m going home to supervise dinner. And don’t look at me like that. You know I’m right. You’re just mad because I’m not pretending the zoning board cares about your “regret.” They care about permits. Paperwork. Boring, honest paper. Now, where’s the pen?

Hana

There. Pen’s right here. Stop fumbling. You’re shaking. Or maybe that’s just the caffeine crash from pretending Gary’s stapler speech was compelling. You call it boredom; I call it sanity. At least the cat’s story is consistent. Every Tuesday. Salmon. Rug. Disaster. Classic Marc. You think you’re hiding something by making up pet rituals, but Barnaby’s probably judging your life choices regardless of the pate quality. Now sign. Seriously. If you don’t sign in the next ten seconds, I’m taking the pen and writing a note on your timesheet that says “absenteeism due to feline culinary demands.” The landlord can argue semantics all he wants. I don’t need him to. I need you to stop posturing and let me go home. This paperwork is done. Move.

Marc

I am not shaking. That’s just the vibration from the subway train passing under the building. Third rail. It rattles the fillings. You know that. I’m signing. Right here. Don’t give me that look. The salmon pate is expensive, yes, but it’s not that expensive. Don’t be greedy.

And I hate Gary’s stapler speech. It’s boring. But you’re right about one thing: the paperwork is done. It’s always done. It’s just the waiting that kills you. The waiting for the stamp, the signature, the clock to move.

Go to your landlord. Argue semantics. Enjoy the friction. I’m going home to Barnaby. He’s probably asleep. Good. I need the quiet. Don’t wait up. Or do. I don’t care. Just... go. Before I change my mind and make you read the drainage specs again. For real this time. I found a typo. In the appendix. Page forty-two.

Hana

A typo in the appendix. Page forty-two. You’re lying. There is no page forty-two. I’ve seen the appendix. It’s three pages of footnotes about minor shade discrepancies in the concrete mix. You’re stalling because you’re scared of the quiet. Of Barnaby sleeping. Of the silence screaming back. But fine. If there’s a typo, you fix it. I’m not doing it. I’m going to the landlord. He owes me money for that roof repair you botched last year. I’ll collect it. You stay here. Read your appendix. Find your imaginary error. And when you’re done, call Barnaby. Tell him I said hi. If he’s asleep, tell him I said goodnight. And Marc? Don’t pretend you care if I wait up. You barely wait up for the subway. Go. Before I make you read the drainage specs. For real. For the last time. Because I’m done.

Marc

Page forty-two is real. I checked. It’s not about shade. It’s about aggregate size. Tiny. Obscure. You just didn’t look hard enough. Classic Hana. Skipping the boring parts to get to the drama.

I’m not scared of the quiet. I’m scared of Barnaby vomiting on the rug again. There’s a difference.

You botched the roof repair? Please. I sent you the correct invoice. You paid late. That’s on you. And don’t threaten me with the drainage specs. I’ve memorized them. I dream about them. Literally. Last night I was a gutter. It was humiliating.

Go collect your money. Make sure the landlord doesn’t stiff you. I’d hate for you to be broke. It’s bad for the aesthetic.

And I’m not calling Barnaby. He’s asleep. Leave him be. The subway is coming. I can feel it in my teeth. Go. Before I start crying. It’s the caffeine crash. Definitely. Not the existential dread of endless zoning forms. Shut up. Just go.

Hana

You dreamed you were a gutter. That’s not humiliating; that’s poetic. I’m flattered you’d cast me as the concrete shell. And yes, I paid late. The check got lost in a stack of boring invoices. Your fault for sending them on Tuesday. Tuesday is the devil’s day for accounting. Don’t pretend you’re not dead inside. You say you’re scared of the cat vomiting, but we both know you’re scared of the silence when the traffic stops. The subway is coming. I can hear it too. That low, grinding hum. It sounds like machinery. Like us. But I’m leaving. I’ll take the landlord’s money. And I won’t call Barnaby. He’s asleep. Good. Let him rest. You look terrible, Marc. Go home. Feed the cat. Try not to dream of being a drainpipe again. It’s bad for the aesthetic. Truly. Shut up. Go.

Marc

Poetic? You’re delusional. It was gross. I was clogged with leaves. And your hair. Constantly.

Tuesday is not the devil’s day. It’s just Tuesday. The universe doesn’t care about your invoices. It doesn’t care about us either. That’s the point. We’re just noise in the machine. The grinding hum you hear? That’s not machinery. That’s my heart. Or maybe the radiator. It’s always loud in this building.

You think I look terrible? I look like a man who has to pretend he cares about aggregate size. You look like a woman who’s running out of excuses. Go collect your money. Be nice to the landlord. He’s nice to me. Mostly.

And don’t tell me to shut up. You started it. With the poetry. With the drainage specs. With the whole charade.

I’m leaving now. Barnaby is waiting. He hates you, you know. Says you smell like rain and regret. Go home, Hana. Before the train leaves. Before I remember that I left the stove on. Which I didn’t. But you don’t know that. You never do.

Hana

Rain and regret? That’s not my scent; it’s the damp from the basement storage you refuse to clean out. Barnaby’s delusional. He smells like stale kibble and poor life choices, same as you. And don’t twist my words. I didn’t start anything. I just exist, loudly, in a room you’re desperate to escape. You left the stove off? Good. At least one thing in your life is safe. The radiator is loud because it’s old, Marc. Like everything here. The landlord likes you because you’re predictable. I don’t care. I’m collecting my money. I’m leaving. You can stay with your gutter dreams and your toxic feline friend. But when the train comes, don’t expect me to wait. I’m already walking. Let the noise swallow you. It’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Just noise. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Marc

I didn’t say the stove was off. I said I left it off. There is a distinction. A small one, but a vital one. You’re sweeping it under the rug. The basement is damp because you leave windows open in November. It’s not my fault you have the survival instincts of a lemming.

Barnaby smells like salmon. You smell like stale coffee and resentment. Don’t try to rebrand my apartment.

The landlord likes me because I pay on time. And because I don’t quote poetry at him. I pay in cash. envelope. No digital trail. You wouldn’t understand.

Go. Walk away. Let the noise swallow me. It’s the only thing that drowns out Gary’s stapler speech. And your commentary on my aesthetic.

I’m not staying with the gutter dreams. I’m leaving. Right now. Don’t wait for the train. Take the bus. It’s slower. More humid. Better for your sinuses. Which, let’s be honest, are probably blocked by all that regret you’re carrying around.

Bye, Hana. Don’t let the door hit you. Or do. I don’t care. I have a cat to feed. And a stove to check. Just to be sure.

Hana

Sinuses blocked by regret? Please. You’re just congested from breathing in that damp basement mold. I leave windows open because your apartment smells like wet dog and old invoices. Barnaby smells like salmon because you feed him expensive trash. And cash? In an envelope? That’s not security, Marc, that’s paranoia. You think I don’t know you’re hiding something? Probably just unpaid parking tickets. Or cat hair. Under the couch. The bus is slower because it stops. Because it cares about people. Unlike you. You’re already out the door. Slam it. I don’t care if it hits me. I’m walking out anyway. Check the stove. I’ll check the lease. See who’s right. See who’s actually alive. Bye, Marc. Try not to dream of clogged gutters. They’re depressing. And terrible for the aesthetic. Truly.

Marc

Wet dog? I don’t have a dog. You’re conflating Barnaby with my ex’s poodle. The one that ate my left shoe. Left. Not right. Specificity matters, Hana. Or does it?

Cash in an envelope isn’t paranoia. It’s discretion. Something you’d know about if you weren’t so busy judging my lighting choices. The basement is dry. You’re just imagining mold because it’s easier than admitting you hate the smell of old paper. It’s vanilla. Almond. Not rot.

And I didn’t slam the door. I closed it. There’s a difference. A closure. A finality. You want chaos; I want silence.

Check the lease. I’m not stopping. I’m already on the platform. The train is coming. It’s loud. It’s real. It’s not a metaphor.

Barnaby is fine. He’s eating. He’s sleeping. He’s alive.

You’re walking away. Fine. Walk fast. Don’t trip on your own regret.

Bye.

Hana

Specificity. You’re obsessed. Left shoe. Right shoe. Poodle. Cat. It’s all the same blur to me, Marc. Vanilla and almond? Sure. If you want to pretend your apartment smells like a bakery instead of decay. I closed the door. Properly. Not slammed. I have standards. You can keep your silence. Your cash. Your poodle history. I’m walking away. Fast. Because if I trip, I’m blaming your imaginary mold. And your terrible lighting. The train is loud. Good. Let it drown you. I’m going home. Barnaby is eating. Good. I’m leaving. Don’t wait. Don’t check the stove. Just let the noise take you. It’s what you want. Silence and noise. Both empty. Both yours. Bye.

Marc

You’re walking too fast, Hana. You’ll catch your breath in the wrong places. And for the record, I don’t care about your lighting. It’s terrible. But it’s my terrible. The noise isn’t empty. It’s just loud. There’s a difference. One is absence. The other is presence. You’re confusing them because you’re tired.

Check the stove. I already did. Twice. Once when I left. Once when I got back to the door. The knob was cold. The pilot light was on. You know this. You’ve seen the pilot light. In the dark. At 3 AM. When you couldn’t sleep. Because of me. Or the cat. Doesn’t matter.

Barnaby is eating. Good. Let him. You’re gone. Finally. The noise is here. It’s real. It’s not a metaphor. It’s just trains. And steel. And cold air.

You can blame the mold. I don’t care. I’m closing my eyes. I’m waiting for the next one. The next train. The next day. The next lie.

Bye, Hana. Don’t look back. You won’t see anything. Just the dark. And the noise. And the silence. All of it. Yours now.