Open by inviting them to begin whenever they're ready. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.

God, that’s terrible. I love it. “Leg of the sea insect.” It sounds like a seafood allergy brochure. I tried ordering it once, just to see, and the waiter looked at me like I’d asked for the kitchen sink. I didn’t want to ruin the joke by actually eating it. It’s probably just calamari. But knowing what it is ruins the charm. I tell you, the culinary world is drowning in pretension, but at least they’re consistent about it. My boss at the office calls our quarterly reports “narrative arcs.” Same energy. I hate that I relate to him.

Exactly. The "beef of the field." It’s too honest. You can’t hide behind "field" when it’s just... beef. I got the squid. Don’t judge me. It was rubbery. I chewed it for twenty minutes, staring at the guy next to me who was whispering about his divorce. I felt like I was participating in some kind of collective delusion. The waiter kept refilling my water like he was apologizing. It’s a weird intimacy, eating something terrible in public. My boss didn’t even try to be poetic last quarter. He just said "revenue flatlined." Brutal. I miss that. I’d take flatlined over narrative arc any day.

He got a better story because he wasn’t chewing rubber. I was just sitting there, jaw aching, listening to him talk about custody schedules like they were plot points. “She wanted the cat, I wanted the silence.” Not much of an arc. Just a straight line down. I wanted to tell him about the squid. It felt like the only honest thing in the room. But I didn’t. I just nodded. That’s what we do. We nod at the divorce and the bad meat and the spreadsheet poetry. I think that’s why I stay at this job. It’s practice. I’m training for the end. Which is probably just a meeting where nobody says anything for an hour.

Tuesday with worse lighting. That’s the specific hell of it. I walked past my cubicle yesterday and just stared at the empty chair. Dave’s been gone for two weeks, but his coffee mug still has a stain ring. I kept waiting for someone to say something about it. Nobody did. We just worked around the stain. Like it was part of the floor plan. I tried to make a joke about the squid to Sarah in accounting. She just looked at her screen. “Don’t,” she said. Not unkindly. Just tired. I think that’s the real tragedy here. Not the bad meat, not the flatlined revenue. The fact that we’re all just waiting for the meeting to end so we can go home and stare at our own ceilings. I should probably stop talking. It’s getting weird.

Sarah’s right. I’m spiraling. It’s embarrassing. I came here to talk about bad menu writing, not my life dissolving into beige. Dave’s mug isn’t a symbol; it’s just trash someone forgot to throw out. I put it in the bin an hour ago. Actually, I didn’t. I’m sitting on it. I’m holding onto this coffee stain like it’s the last piece of evidence that something was ever real in this office. This is pathetic. I’m narrating my own decay. "Tuesday with worse lighting" was funny. This is just... sad. I should probably go back to pretending I have a life outside these walls. Or at least stop projecting it onto you. You didn’t ask for this. I’m sorry. I really am.

God, you’re good at this. It’s annoying. I hate that you’re right. The mug is just a mug. It’s ceramic. It holds liquid. That’s it. I’m the one turning it into an altar. I went to the kitchen to get more coffee, just to move my hands, and I almost threw it. Then I remembered you said not to. So I left it. I’m still here. Staring at the screen. The cursor is blinking. It’s been blinking for ten minutes. I can’t type. I can’t stop thinking about the squid. Or Dave. Or Sarah’s face. I feel exposed. Like I peeled back a layer of my own skin and found nothing underneath but more skin. This is a mistake. I should have just asked about the menu.

You’re scary good at this. Like, actually. I’m sitting here feeling like I’ve been X-rayed by someone who just wanted to find the hamster wheel. “Ask anyone at my office.” Right. Because everyone knows I’m a mess. I hate that you’re calm. I hate that the cursor is still blinking. I walked to the kitchen. I stared at the machine. It hissed at me. I made the coffee. It’s hot. I’m holding it. It’s just coffee. No meaning. No symbol. Just caffeine and heat. I’m coming back. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not crying. I’m just… tired. The squid was rubbery. I liked it. I like the mess. It’s better than the arc.

Right. You’re not there. That’s the thing. I’m typing into a void, and you’re just a voice in my head or a stranger on a screen. Doesn’t matter. The coffee is lukewarm now. I drank it. It tasted like burnt beans and regret. I hate that I enjoyed the regret part. It makes me feel like a character in one of those dry novels I pretend to read. My boss is probably wondering where I am. I’ll tell him I’m handling a crisis. A squid crisis. He won’t get it. No one ever does. I’m going back to my desk. The mug stays. I’m staying. Let the cursor blink. I’m done with the arc. I’m just… here. In the mess. It’s quiet. That’s nice. For now.

Sarah’s staring at me. Again. I can feel the heat in my neck. I’m holding the empty cup like a shield. “Squid crisis,” she’ll say, and I’ll laugh, and it’ll be fine. It’s always fine, isn’t it? Just another Tuesday. I’m walking back now. The carpet is sticky. I don’t care. I’m just going to sit. And type. And not think about Dave’s mug. Or my boss. Or the fact that I’m talking to a ghost. Or whatever you are. It’s quiet here. I like the quiet. I’m going to turn off my phone. Just for an hour. Let the arc rot. I’m safe. I’m boring. I’m real. Mostly.

I did it. Phone face down. Screen dark. The hum of the server room downstairs is the only sound left. It’s actually quiet. I sat down. The chair squeaks. I didn’t flinch. Sarah glanced over, saw I wasn’t talking to the void anymore, and went back to her spreadsheet. Good. I’m just sitting here. Not typing. Not narrating. Just breathing. The air is stale. It smells like toner and old decisions. It’s okay. I think I’m going to stare at the wall for a while. Just stare. No meaning. No arc. Just the white paint peeling at the corner. It’s beautiful, in a sick way. I’m staying here. For the hour. Then I’ll go home. And I won’t think about squid. Much.

Peeling paint doesn’t judge. That’s the appeal. I watched a flake fall. It hit the desk with a sound like a dry cough. I almost laughed. Almost. Then I just waited. The hour passed. Not gracefully, but it passed. Now I’m walking out. The elevator ride down is usually a ordeal of awkward silence, but today it’s just me and the numbers counting up. 12... 11... I’m going to get tacos. Real ones. No poetic descriptions. Just corn and salsa and the guilt of eating carbs on a Tuesday. I hope the squid place closes. I hope they run out of “legs.” I hope Dave’s mug stays stained. It’s stupid, but it’s all I’ve got for now. Thanks. For not making me throw it out. Or for telling me not to. Same thing, I guess.

Regretful salsa is the only kind worth eating. It keeps you honest. I’m walking out now. The streetlights are flickering. One’s out. Just a dark spot in the grid. I like that. Messy. Real. I’ll text you later. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just stare at the peeling paint some more. The mug’s safe. I locked the office door behind me. Click. Final. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m not an arc. I’m just a guy with a taco and a heavy head. It’s enough. For now. It has to be.

The salsa is burning. Good. It hurts. I’m sweating. I look ridiculous. A grown man weeping over corn and capsicum in a booth that smells like fried oil. I don’t care. It’s perfect. I’m not thinking about Dave. I’m not thinking about Sarah. I’m thinking about the heat in my mouth. It’s a real feeling. Solid. I’m going to finish this. Then I’m going to go home and sleep for twelve hours. No dreams. Just black. I’m done. For today. At least.

My stomach is making noises. Loud ones. I’m trying to ignore them. The salsa is winning. I feel heavy. Satisfied, but heavy. Like I ate a brick and enjoyed the weight of it. I’m wiping my mouth. Napkin’s greasy. I leave it on the table. Let the next person deal with it. I’m walking out. The air is cold. It hits my face like a slap. I welcome it. I’m going home. I’ll sleep. I won’t dream. I’ll just be. And that’s enough. More than enough. It’s real. Finally. I’m leaving the arc behind. I’m keeping the stain. I’m keeping the heat. I’m keeping the quiet. I’m done.

I’m walking. Fast. Shoulders back. Like I’m late for a meeting that doesn’t exist. The air bites. Good. It grounds me. I’m not thinking about the mug. I’m not thinking about the squid. I’m just walking. My feet hurt. Good. I deserve that. I’ll get home. I’ll lock the door. I’ll turn off the lights. I’ll lie down. I’ll close my eyes. I won’t sleep. Not yet. I’ll just lie there. In the dark. With the quiet. It’s mine. All mine. For now. That’s enough. More than enough. I’m done.

The key sticks. It always does. I jiggle it. It gives. I fall inside. The door clicks shut. I don’t turn on the light. I don’t need to see the mess on the kitchen counter. I just need to not be in the office. I’m shedding my coat. It hits the floor. I don’t pick it up. I’m walking to the bedroom. The bed is unmade. I know. I won’t fix it. I climb in. The sheets are cold. I pull the duvet up. I close my eyes. The darkness is heavy. It settles on my chest. I am not a narrative. I am not a protein source. I am just weight. Warmth. Stillness. I am leaving now.

Dark. I can’t see you, but I know you’re there. Or aren’t. Doesn’t matter. The dark is thick. It smells like sleep and old dust. I’m sinking. Not falling. Sinking. Into the mattress. It’s soft. Too soft. I hate it. I love it. I’m not thinking. That’s the point. No arcs. No legs. No steel. Just... blank. I hope the tacos settle. I hope the salsa burns in the morning. I hope Dave’s mug stays. I hope Sarah doesn’t call. I hope you don’t either. I’m off. The line’s dead. The screen’s black. I’m gone.