Go Ahead ·
Whenever you're ready to start, go ahead.
That yellowed plastic thing old electronics get — nobody ever explains what causes it. Bromine in the flame retardant, apparently. Was thinking about it because the radiator at work is that exact colour now, which it definitely wasn't a year ago.
Radiator? In an office? That’s not yellowing, Ben, that’s rust bleeding through the paint. You’re seeing corrosion. I’ve been staring at this same wall in the breakroom for three years, watching the stucco peel like sunburnt skin. We don’t talk about it because management says it’s “character.” I tried to mention the smell—musty, like wet cardboard—but Dave just laughed. Said I needed to get outside more. So now I just buy cheap plastic cups at the grocery store. The ones that feel greasy. At least they don’t lie about their age.
Could be rust, sure. I wasn't exactly running tests on it. Though calling it "character" when it's actively falling apart is a special kind of management delusion — I get that.
The cups thing is a weirder leap though. Grease as honesty? Most people buy cheap cups because they're cheap, not for the moral clarity. Dave sounds like an idiot regardless.
Dave’s not the point. It’s the texture. That slick film on the plastic... it feels like it’s sweating. Like it knows it’s temporary. The radiator’s doing the same thing, shedding its skin in little flakes. I went to touch it, just to see if it was warm. Got my hand stuck on a jagged edge. Cut my thumb. Now I’ve got a bandage. Steve at accounting asked if I was okay. I just said “clumsy.” He didn’t press. Everyone just lets things rot until they can’t be ignored anymore. Then they replace them. Or try to.
"It knows it's temporary" — plastic doesn't know anything, that's just the story you're laying over it. The cut's real though. You should probably actually clean that instead of narrating it.
And I don't buy "everyone lets things rot" as some universal law. Some people fix things immediately, annoyingly so. My landlord repaints the hallway every eighteen months whether it needs it or not. Rot-until-crisis is a choice some places make, not a physics law.
My landlord paints. It’s a veneer. He covers the cracks with white latex and calls it fresh. I mean, sure, he could fix the foundation, but that costs actual money. He just wants the visual. It’s performative maintenance. I keep saying this to myself, that the cut is just biology, not a metaphor. But when I wrap it, the gauze sticks. That’s the part that matters. The friction. You say I’m not running tests. Right. I’m just watching the peeling paint in the stairwell. It curls up like a dead leaf. Dave wouldn’t get that. Dave sees a radiator and sees heat. I see the slow surrender of material. It’s exhausting, honestly. Just watching it go.
You're doing a lot of work to make a maintenance complaint sound like a eulogy. Gauze sticks because gauze is designed to stick, not because friction is trying to tell you something. I think you know that, actually — you keep undercutting your own metaphors before I have to.
Dave seeing a radiator and seeing heat isn't obtuseness, by the way. That's just correctly identifying what a radiator is for.
I’m not undercutting anything. I’m just tired of people asking why I can’t be simple. It’s not a eulogy. It’s just... observation. You think I want this to be profound? I want the radiator to stop hissing. I want the cut to stop throbbing. I don’t have time for poetry when my thumb is bleeding through the bandage. You’re right about Dave. He’s probably right. Heat is what radiators do. But the yellowing? That’s not heat. That’s time. And I’m running out of it. Not that you care. You’re just sitting there, judging my narrative skills. Fine. I’ll go get some peroxide. The cheap stuff. The stinging kind.
If your thumb's bleeding through the bandage go deal with that instead of arguing plastic chemistry with me, that's not a narrative problem. And I didn't say I don't care — I said the gauze isn't symbolic. Those aren't the same accusation.
Go get the peroxide.
I can’t. The pharmacy’s closed. It’s already past six, Ben. You’re treating this like a to-do list. “Go get peroxide.” Like I’m a script you’re trying to debug. I’m sitting here, staring at the wall, and the cut is throbbing in time with the radiator’s hiss. It’s rhythmic. Annoying. I think about cutting the gauze off. Just ripping it. But then the blood comes out again. And I’m back to square one. Dave wouldn’t do this. He’d just go to the store. I’m not Dave. I’m the guy who watches the paint peel. You’re judging me for it. Or maybe you’re just waiting for me to leave so you can finish your work. Fine. I’ll wait.
Then don't rip it off, that's not a coin flip, it's just going to bleed more. Wrap what you have tighter and elevate your hand, that's not poetry either, it's just what stops bleeding.
I'm not waiting for you to leave. I do actually have a thing at seven though — my sister's dragging me to some gallery opening I have zero interest in. Doesn't mean I'm rushing you off the phone over a cut thumb.
Elevate the hand. Right. Like that fixes anything. It’s throbbing, Ben. It’s not a leak you can just turn off. I tried wrapping it tighter earlier. The gauze tore. Now it’s just sticky. I hate sticky. It feels like the room is shrinking. The radiator is louder now. Or maybe I’m just hyper-aware of it. You have a gallery opening. Seven. I didn’t ask. I’m just... here. Staring at the wall. The paint is bubbling again. Little blisters. Like acne. Dave would tell me to go to the ER. I’m not going to the ER for a paper cut. I’m staying. Because if I leave, I have to acknowledge it’s just a thumb. And that’s terrifying.