Start by apologising for something nobody noticed. Push off from this if it helps: handwriting on envelopes.

Stop. Please. I’m trying to answer.

My boss, Dave, he’s got this new printer. It jams if you look at it wrong. I stood there for twenty minutes listening to that grinding noise. I wanted to scream, but I just kept feeding it the tray. Hand trembling. I felt like an idiot. Just standing there.

And you think the address is the problem? It’s the ink. Cheap gel pen. It smudged when it rained. I ran out under the awning.

I don’t know why you’re asking. I’m fine. I’m always fine. I’m just... tired.

You’re making it worse. You’re analyzing the printer.

I don’t care about Dave. He bought a Dell. Was it a mistake? Yes. Does it matter? No. I just kept feeding the paper. My hand shook so bad I tore the corner of the invoice. Red ink. On white stock. It looked like a wound.

You talk about managers like you’re writing a biography. I’m not a character in your little story. I’m standing here holding a coffee cup that’s too hot, waiting for you to stop dissecting my middle management trauma.

Did you eat lunch? No, don’t answer. Just tell me what you want. Is the letter delivered? Did you throw it in the bin? Because I’m staring at the trash can and I can’t move.

I didn't realize it was that cold. Or that hot. I’m confused.

Under the fruit bowl? The green apples are rotting. I can smell them through the ceramic. It’s sweet and sour. Makes my teeth ache.

Tuesday. That’s three days. Why did you leave it there? Did you forget? Or were you waiting for me to open it? You say you haven't opened it. So why did you bring it? To watch me squint at the address?

I need to put the cup down. But my fingers are locked. The heat is just... there. Static. Like the printer.

Give me the letter. Or don't. But stop talking about the apples. They’re leaking juice on the wood. It’s sticky. I hate sticky.

Fine.

I’m sitting. On the arm of the sofa. The fabric is rough. Wool blend. Itches.

You say you’re not watching. You’re staring at my hand. Your eyes are wide. You think I’m going to break? You think I’m fragile?

I picked up the cup because I was angry. At Dave. At the printer. At the rain. At the ink.

It’s just ceramic. It’s just paper.

The letter is on the table. Under the rotting apples. You didn’t open it. So it’s still sealed. I can’t read what I can’t see.

Why are you looking at me like that? Like I’m a bomb. I’m not a bomb. I’m Edie. I work at the firm. I hate printers.

Open it. Or throw it away. But stop looking at my hands. They’re fine. They’re just cold now.

Fine.

I stand up. Knees pop. Loud. Like a dry branch snapping.

I walk to the table. The wood is cold under my fingertips. I lift the bowl. Green skin. Soft spots. Juice runs down my thumb, onto the table. Sticky. I hate it.

I grab the envelope. It’s thick. Cream stock. Heavy. It feels important. Or fake.

My hand shakes again. I drop it. It lands face down.

I pick it up. Tear it. The paper is tough. Rips unevenly.

Inside? Just a card. A birthday card? No. It’s a form letter. From the bank.

I didn’t expect a bank letter. I expected... I don’t know.

I read the first line. "Dear Edie."

It’s about the account. The one with the overdraft fee. The one from Tuesday.

I didn’t tell you about the fee.

Forty. Bucks.

I don’t remember Tuesday. I remember the printer screaming. I remember the jam. I remember Dave asking if I’d eaten.

I was at the corner store. Bought coffee. The card slid through. It shouldn’t have worked. I have three dollars in there.

Maybe I didn’t buy coffee. Maybe I bought something else. Something small. A pack of gum? No, gum is cheap.

The letter says "Merchandise Charge."

Why did I charge it?

I’m looking at the card. It’s in my wallet. In my pocket. I can feel the edge. Sharp.

Did you take it? No. You’re sitting there. Watching me read.

I’m afraid to look at the balance. If I look, it’s real. If I don’t, maybe it disappears. Like the printer noise. Maybe if I ignore it, Dave stops staring.

How much do I owe? You calculate it in your head. Don’t say it. I want to say it myself.

I don’t have a calculator.

The letter is right there. Bottom right corner. $142.50.

That’s the total. The fee was forty. The rest... the rest is the charge. The "Merchandise."

I bought... I don’t know. I bought something. Something small. Something I can’t name.

I walked out of the store. I walked home. I remember the rain. I remember the wet socks. But I don’t remember the shop.

Is it because I’m broken? Is that it? I bought it and forgot it. Like I forgot to open the envelope. Like I forgot to breathe.

Fourteen. Two. Five. Zero.

Say it back to me. So I know I said it. So it’s not just in my head.

I didn’t buy gum. Gum is two dollars.

I’m not having a crisis. I’m having a Tuesday.

You think I’m making this up? I’m standing in your hallway. The air smells like wet wool and rotting fruit. It’s real.

I’ll call the bank. Tomorrow. I have to.

But you didn’t open the letter either. You left it under the bowl. You let it rot. You watched me squint at the address. You let me stand there with the hot cup.

We’re both doing something wrong here. You just call it "not watching." I call it...

I don’t know what I call it.

I’m going home. The bus comes in ten. I can hear it outside. The brakes hissing.

Don’t follow me.

Laziness. That’s kind of you to frame it that way. Saves me the work of inventing a conspiracy.

The bus hissing. It’s loud. The brakes are bad. I can feel the vibration in the floorboards.

I’m not crying. My eyes are just dry. From the printer dust. From the rotting apples.

I’ll text you. The merchant. I’ll remember it. Even if I don’t remember buying it.

Don’t wait up. Or do. It doesn’t matter. The door is right there.

I’m leaving.

The door slams. It’s loud. The latch sticks. I have to jiggle it. Once. Twice. It catches.

Outside, the rain has stopped. The pavement is wet. Reflects the streetlamp. Orange. Flickering.

I wait for the bus. My phone is in my pocket. Heavy. Silent.

I don’t text you. Not yet.

I walk to the stop. The bench is cold. Metal. I sit. I pull my knees up.

The merchant name is on the card in my hand. I haven’t looked. I’m afraid.

If I look, it’s real. If I don’t, maybe it’s just a bad dream. A printer jam. A rotting apple.

The bus hisses. Approaching.

I look at the card.

It says: “High Stakes.”

I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what I bet.

High Stakes. Of course.

I didn’t think. I just... put it there.

The bus doors hiss open. Air rushes in. Cold. Smells like diesel and wet dog.

I step up. Swipe the card. The machine beeps. Green light.

I sit in the back. Window seat. Condensation fogs the glass. I draw a line with my finger. It disappears.

Pattern. You say pattern.

I’ve been paying for four months. Same day. Same time. Tuesday.

I thought it was a subscription. A streaming service? No, too much. A club?

I don’t remember joining.

I’m looking at my hands. They’re steady now. Cold.

I’m not going to call the bank tomorrow. I’m going to call it now. From the bus.

I’m looking for the phone number. On the back of the card. It’s scratched off.

Why did they scratch it off?

The bus turns. I see the reflection in the window. I look pale.

I’m going to throw up.

I can’t get off. The driver’s watching. In the mirror. He sees me pale. Sees me shaking.

It’s not a performance. My stomach is turning. Over and over. Like the printer jam.

I’m staying on. To the end.

If I get off now, I have to walk. I have to face the street. The rain. The silence.

On the bus, I’m contained. Moving. Safe.

You think I’m scared of the bank? I’m scared of the silence when I get home. The empty apartment. The stack of unopened mail.

Four months.

I’ll call the bank tomorrow. In daylight.

But first, I need to vomit. Not here. Not now.

I’m closing my eyes. Listening to the tires. Humming.

Don’t wait for the text. There won’t be one. Not tonight.