Open by describing what happened in a way that quietly assigns fault. Push off from this if it helps: escalators.

The escalator thing — you were talking to what's-her-name, Priya, and you just let go of the cart on the top step like it was gonna park itself. It rolled back into the guy behind us. I watched it happen, Marc. That's not a mystery.

Halfway off, sure, but the cart wasn't moving itself, was it. And how do you even know what I saw — you weren't looking at me, you were looking at Priya's bag. You're building a version where I'm confused so you don't have to be the guy who let go.

So now you're the one who reacted and I'm the one who froze — that's convenient, Marc. Also physically impossible, you can't watch my face and a bag mid-air at the same time, pick one. You had four drinks before we even got there. I counted.

Three, four — congratulations on the arithmetic, you're doing great. I was checking whether the cart was rolling, which it was, because you let go of it. Everybody in that Duane Reade line saw the same thing I did. You want a witness, ask the guy with the ice cream.

"We" left it — there's the pivot. Ten seconds ago it was your hands, now it's ours. I'm not doing the thing where you get drunk enough to blur the pronouns and I end up half-owning it. Somebody's shin got clipped. That somebody wasn't me.

"Stopped holding it" is a hell of a way to describe letting go of a moving cart, Marc. And I'm not loud, I'm clear, there's a difference you're struggling with right now. You want me drunker so the story's easier to win. I'm not giving you that.

Because intent's the only part you get to control the narrative on, Marc — the rolling part's just physics, nobody argues with physics. You do this every time, make it about my reaction so your hands disappear from the whole thing. I stepped back because it was coming at me.

No. "Fine, I startled" isn't the same as "I let go of the cart," and you know it, you're just hoping I'm tired enough to take the smaller apology. I'm not tired. Get some water, Marc.

"Let it go" — that's rich coming from the guy who already did, right into somebody's shin. I'm not mad it hit him instead of you, I'm mad you keep steering this away from the ten seconds where your hands weren't on the cart anymore.

That is genuinely disgusting, Marc, and also nonsense — nobody enjoys watching a stranger get bruised in a drugstore aisle. That's the wine talking, or something worse. I'm not admitting to a thing I never felt. Drink some water and stop reaching.

My face isn't red, Marc, it's August and this apartment doesn't have working AC, that's a different problem entirely. I'll get water when I'm done watching you decide the cart drove itself. Sit there. I'm not finished.

Nobody said magician, Marc, I said you let go — those are different sentences with different verbs. Gravity didn't need help from you, it needed the absence of your hand, which you provided. That's the whole case. I'm resting it there.

That's the first true sentence you've said all night, Marc. And no, I'm not happy, I'm just done arguing with someone rearranging furniture in his own memory. Go to bed. I'll deal with the ice next.

I always handle the ice, Marc. That's not new information. Go lie down before you say something else you'll deny in the morning — you've got a track record now, I'm keeping it somewhere.

Wasn't planning to. Turn on your side, you always snore worse on your back, and I am not dealing with that tonight on top of everything else.

Goodnight, Marc. Drink the water on your nightstand before you pass out — the good version of you remembers to, we'll see which one shows up tomorrow.

I'm relaxed. This was me relaxed. You should see the other version.

Not tonight. Go to sleep, Marc.