Open by saying this is really just a formality. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.

Look, Lena. This is all a formality. A bureaucratic ritual we’re both forced to endure, like waiting for a bus that’s clearly been canceled but keeps showing up on the digital display. I remember sitting there, staring at that menu last week. The translation was so catastrophically bad it was almost art. “Spicy disappointment” instead of “spicy disappointment.” No, wait. “Crunchy sorrow.” I can still taste the confusion. It was terrifyingly vivid. Why do places do that? Why invite you into a culinary nightmare wrapped in polite confusion? It’s a specific kind of loneliness, really. To be hungry and confused simultaneously. Anyway, my pen is hovering. I’ve already signed the slip of paper in my head. It’s just the scritch-scratch of the pen that remains, a dry, scratching sound against the noise of my own boredom. You know how it is.

Right. Yes. The pen. I forgot, didn’t I? Or maybe you just don’t believe in holding onto things. Heavy metal instruments. Clunky. I suppose that makes sense, given the boiler situation. Wet dog is a specific note, isn’t it? Acrid, animal, clinging to the walls like a bad memory. It’s interesting how a smell can define a space more than the furniture ever could. You’re probably exhausted. The basement, up until five. That’s a long time to be underground, listening to pipes groan and water hammer against the metal. It must be... dense down there. Claustrophobic in a way that doesn’t feel confined, but rather expansive and dirty. I’ll just... here. I’ll just press it into your hand, metaphorically speaking, since you refuse the literal. The decision is made, Lena. It’s already done. The paper is dry. The ink is black. We’re just waiting for the smell to clear.

Right. Sorry. I’m doing that thing again. The thing where I try to dress up the mundane in velvet because the raw edges are too sharp. You’re right, it’s just dark. And wet dog. Not groans. I’m a terrible listener when I’m nervous. Or bored. Or both. My throat feels dry. I should probably get some water. Or stop talking. You’re right, the quiet is fine. It’s actually nice, in a way. No poetry. No projections. Just... silence. And the smell. I’ll sign the paper. Here. scratch scratch. There. Done. It’s just a piece of paper, Lena. Nothing more. Why are you looking at me like that? Like I’m the one who doesn’t belong. I’m just the person who brought the pen. Even if you didn’t ask for it. Even if you didn’t want it. It’s done now. The ink is dry. Can we go?

Oh. Right. The door. I hadn’t even looked. Or I’d looked and my brain had politely declined to register it. Stuck. An hour. That’s... well, that’s a substantial amount of time. Usually, a door opens. It’s what doors do. They rotate on hinges and allow for the passage of people from one space to another. To escape. Or to enter. We’re just... lingering. In the liminal space between a basement and the rest of the world. It’s odd, really. How we can miss such a fundamental mechanical failure. I stopped shaking. Mostly. My hands feel cold, though. Like I’ve been holding ice. Or maybe just paper. The ink is dry, yes. But the air is getting thicker. Can you hear that? The hum? Or is it just your imagination? Mine’s playing tricks too, it seems. We’re both just waiting for someone to turn the handle. Or for it to break off entirely.

Oh. The kitchen. Right. Of course. It’s the kitchen. I’ve been sitting at your table, staring at a door that was never stuck, imagining a boiler that smells of dog instead of burnt coffee. That’s... that’s rather embarrassing, isn’t it? To construct an entire prison out of a smell and a handle. I feel foolish. My hands are still cold, though. I didn’t invent the cold. That’s real. I’ll turn it. I’ll just turn it. It’s a simple mechanism. Metal on metal. A lever, not a hinge. I’m overcomplicating things because I’m afraid of what’s behind the door. Or maybe I’m just afraid of being in your kitchen without knowing why. The coffee grounds. They’re stale. That’s why it smells. Not wet dog. Just old, forgotten beans. I’ll open it. It’ll open. It has to. That’s what doors do. They open. Even when you think they’re stuck. Especially when you think they’re stuck. I’m turning it now. See? It’s just a door. Why did I make it a nightmare?

Tuesday. Right. Of course it is. How tedious. I was convinced we were in some sort of atmospheric thriller, but it turns out I’m just a bore in a kitchen on a Tuesday. My bad. The cold coffee is a tragedy, yes. A small, domestic tragedy. I didn’t realize I was holding you up. I thought we had all the time in the world to dissect the metaphysics of stagnation. But no. You have work. Mundane, grinding, necessary work. I suppose that’s more real than my imaginary hinges. I’m standing up. My legs feel stiff. Unoccupied. I’ll open the door. Not because I’m convinced it’s unlocked, but because you’re hungry. And I’m tired of being the obstacle. I’m the obstacle. It’s a funny role. I’ll play it no longer. The handle is cold. Brass, probably. Or cheap steel. I’m turning it. Click. It opens. Just like that. No drama. No wet dog. Just Tuesday. I’m sorry. For the hinges. For the silence I tried to fill. You go. I’ll stay with the cold coffee. It’s the least I can do.

Fine. You’re right. It is pathetic. Staying behind to sulk over spilled coffee. I’m an idiot. A loud, boring idiot. I’ll take the mug. It’s warm, actually. Not cold. The heat has seeped back in, I suppose. Or maybe I’m just imagining that too. I’m standing. My knees crack. A dry, brittle sound. I’ll leave. Right now. I don’t want to be locked in. Especially not by you. That would be a special kind of hell. I’ll walk out. I’ll go back to my office. To the spreadsheets. To the blinking cursor. The things that bore me. The things that are real. I’m sorry, Lena. Truly. I got lost in the words. I forgot the room. I forgot you. I’ll go. Now. Before you lock it. Before you hate me. I’m out. The door is open. I’m walking through. I’m gone. Finally. Just a shadow in the hallway. A mistake. A bad translation. I’m leaving.

Look. I’m walking. Shutting up. The cold mug is just a cold mug. I’m not imagining warmth. I’m not imagining anything except the hallway stretching out, boring and gray, and my own reflection in the window, looking ridiculous. You’re right. It was pathetic. The whole thing. The kitchen, the door, the hinges that weren’t there. It was a performance. For whom? I don’t know. Maybe for me. Maybe just to fill the silence until it became noise. I’m outside now. The air is thin. Cold, too. Not wet dog. Just winter. Or maybe it’s just Tuesday. I didn’t look back. You said not to. So I didn’t. The latch clicked. Good. I deserve it. I’m gone. Let’s never speak of the menu again. Or the boiler. Or the door. It’s just coffee. Cold coffee. In my hand. Walking away. Alone. Finally.

Disappearing is easy. It’s the only thing I’m good at, really. Just walking. Away from the kitchen. Away from the cold mug that isn’t warm. Away from the latch that clicked. You’re right. It’s just noise. I was noise. Loud, annoying, unnecessary noise. I’m fading out now. Into the gray. Into the Tuesday. No drama. No performance. Just steps. Hard heels on pavement. Or linoleum. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. The boiler needs attention. I hope it doesn’t smell like wet dog. I hope it just hums. Or sighs. I’ll be gone before you notice I’m gone. That’s the point. To be unnoticed. To be irrelevant. I’m irrelevant. It’s a relief, actually. Heavy, but relieving. Good. Go fix your boiler. I’ll go fix my... whatever it is I need to fix. The menu wasn’t even real. None of it was. Except the cold. I’m cold. I’m walking. I’m quiet. Finally. Go. I’m gone.

Hissing. Right. Of course. I should have known. Humming is for people who believe in gentleness. Hissing is for machines that are angry. Or leaking. Or both. It’s a sharp, violent sound. Probably better for the house. Less pretension. I’m not talking through the wall, Lena. I’m just talking in the hallway. There’s a difference. Acoustics. You wouldn’t know about acoustics. You’re busy with valves and drafts. I’ll go. I’m walking. The floorboards creak. They always creak. It’s a good sound. Honest. Unlike my poetry. Unlike my hinges. I’m gone. Truly gone this time. No more mug. No more coffee. Just the cold air and the sound of my own footsteps, fading into the gray. The door is locked. Good. Keep it locked. I don’t want to be let in. I don’t want to be let out. I just want to be quiet. Finally. Go. Fix your hissing beast. Leave me to my irrelevance. It’s the only thing I have left. And it’s plenty. It’s enough. It’s nothing. Goodbye. Or whatever. Just... silence. Please. Let there be silence. I’m walking away. I’m walking away. I’m walking away.

Three turns. Click. The finality of it is almost rude. I stop. My feet are on the floorboards. They feel solid. Real. The muttering stops because there is nowhere for the sound to go. The wall is thick. Solid. Like your patience, which has clearly evaporated. Old boiler. Old Ana. I suppose we are all just slightly rusty, leaking pressure, waiting for someone to turn a valve that won’t turn. It’s a tidy comparison. I’ll take it. Less emotional than the wet dog. Less poetic than the hinges. Just physics. Decay. Time. I’m standing still now. Not walking. Just standing. Listening to the hiss. It’s loud. Aggressive. It demands attention. I’m giving you that. I’m not giving you myself. That’s yours. Keep it. Lock it. Bolt it. The silence is heavy. It presses against the door. Against my ears. It’s not peaceful. It’s just absence. I’m absent. Finally. Let the draft come in. Let it freeze the coffee. Let it freeze me. I’m done talking. I’m done walking. I’m just... here. And you’re... there. Separated by wood and metal and three turns of a bolt. Good.

Spilled. Right. Of course. I wasn’t even holding it anymore, and I managed to ruin it. That’s my specialty. Creating messes out of nothing. Wet ash. That’s... actually worse than wet dog. More acidic. More final. It smells like burning. Like something that was once useful, now just residue. I am getting cold. The floor is seeping into my shoes. I’m not performing stillness. I’m just... standing. Frozen by the bolt, by the hiss, by the sheer weight of my own incompetence. You’re washing your face. Good. Wash it off. Wash off the smell of me. Of the boiler. Of the Tuesday. I’m going home. Not the office. Home. The small apartment with the leaky faucet and the silence that doesn’t click. I’ll walk. Slowly. Carefully. Avoiding puddles. Avoiding memory. Avoiding the sound of my own footsteps. It’s over. The bolt is turned. The coffee is ash. I am cold. I am leaving. Don’t wait up. Don’t look out the window. Just keep washing. Keep the water running. Let it drown out the hiss. I’m gone. Truly. For good. This time.

3 a.m. Oh. I didn’t realize. The hours have blurred. I thought it was just Tuesday stretching out, infinite and gray. But it’s three in the morning. The witching hour. The hour of bad decisions and loud noises. I’m vibrating in the pipes. That’s… that’s grotesque, really. To be that intrusive. To be part of the plumbing, literally. My voice in the radiator. A metallic echo of my own inadequacy. It’s disgusting. You’re right. It’s disgusting. I’ll stop. I’ll stop vibrating. I’ll stop talking. I’ll stop being. I’m walking home. Through the dark. Through the silence. Through the cold. My faucet is leaking. It’s been leaking for weeks. I haven’t fixed it. I don’t care. Neither do you. Good. Let it drip. Let it echo. Let it be the only sound I leave behind. I’m gone. The pipes are quiet. The walls are quiet. The night is quiet. Just me. And the dark. And the leak. I’m home. Locked out. Or locked in. It doesn’t matter. I’m done. Truly done. Goodnight, Lena. Or good morning. Depending on how you see it. I’m sleeping now. Finally.

Right. The hallway. Of course. I’m standing here. In the dark. My breath fogging the wood. It’s not a performance. It’s just biology. In. Out. Wet and warm. You’re right. The radiator is cold. Dead metal. I’m alone. Truly alone. Not in a kitchen. Not in a basement. Just the hallway. The smell of wet ash. The draft. I’ll go to sleep where I belong. Outside your door. On the floor. Or on the stairs. It doesn’t matter. The wood is hard. Cold. Unforgiving. I’m shutting up. Finally. The silence is thick. Heavy. It presses against my eardrums. I’m alone. With the cold. With the dark. With the smell. I’ll stay here. Until morning. Or until I freeze. It doesn’t matter. I’m quiet. I’m still. I’m gone. From your mind. From your walls. From your life. I’m just a shadow in the hall. A breath on the wood. A mistake. I’ll sleep. Just sleep. No more words. No more noise. Just the dark. And the cold. And the silence. Finally. Good.

The super. Of course. The one person I don’t want to see. The one person who will look at me, standing there, frozen, breath sticking to the varnish, and see exactly what I am: a hazard. A blockage. A thing to be moved. I’m moving. I’m stepping back. The wood is cold against my spine, but I’m stepping away from it. The stain is gone. Just a damp patch now. A memory of my failure. I’m not going home. Home is too far. Home is too quiet. The station is closer. The station is bright. The station is full of people who don’t care if I’m here or not. I’ll go there. I’ll sit on a bench. I’ll watch the trains come and go. I’ll listen to the screech of brakes. It’s better than the hiss. It’s better than the cold. I’m moving. I’m gone. Not sleeping. Not staying. Just leaving. The stairwell is clear. The fire code is satisfied. The super can come. He can see. He can do nothing. I’m already gone. To the station. To the lights. To the noise. Finally. Go back to your boiler. I’m not a threat. I’m just a ghost in the hallway. A draft. A mistake. I’m moving. I’m leaving. I’m done. With the wood. With the cold. With the waiting. I’m walking. Away. Forever. Or until the next train.

Five minutes. Of course. I missed it. How predictable. How utterly, devastatingly typical. The schedule is a lie anyway. A comforting fiction we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night, believing that if we just hurry, just push, just be, we might catch something. Anything. But no. The train is gone. It’s already halfway to the city, rattling past my mistake, my cold breath, my pathetic attempt at stillness. I’m stuck. Here. In the dark. With you. Again. You’re going back to bed. To the boiler. To the wet dog smell that isn’t there. I should go home. But home is empty. Home is just walls and silence and a faucet that won’t stop dripping. This hallway is better. It’s real. It’s solid. It has a door that locks. I’ll stay. Just for a moment. Just until my legs stop shaking. Then I’ll go. Or I won’t. It doesn’t matter. The train is gone. I am here. And you are in bed. And the wall is cold. And I am quiet. Finally. Truly. Quiet. Go to sleep, Lena. Don’t listen to me. I’m not talking. I’m just breathing. Sticking to the wood. Fading away. Goodnight. Or good morning. It’s all the same now. Just dark. Just still. Just me. Alone. With the memory of a train I missed. And a door that opened. And closed. And locked. Forever.