Okay. I'm fine. I just think it's interesting that the deposit receipt says 6:40 and your message to me that same night says you were "just leaving" at 7:15. That's thirty five minutes, Marc. I'm not upset about it. I just like when things line up.
I was holding the door for Mrs. Gable. You know how she gets if you don't hold the damn elevator. It took her forever to shuffle in. She was wheezing, Edie. I wasn't sitting in my car thinking about the receipt. I was standing in the lobby, sweating through my shirt because I’m late, and she’s just… taking up space. I said “just leaving” because I was leaving. The moment she got in, I got in. It’s not a conspiracy. It’s just old people moving like molasses. You’re really gonna parse the timestamp? Really? I had to wait for the cab. That’s where the thirty five minutes went. Not in a café, not at some bar. In the elevator.
Cab. Right. What cab company, because the one I called for that building only runs every twenty minutes on a weeknight, and there's no stand out front — you have to phone it in. So either you phoned it in from the lobby, in which case there's a call log, or you didn't and you walked to the corner on Delford like everyone does. I'm not saying Mrs. Gable's a lie. I'm saying thirty five minutes is a long elevator ride for someone with a cane. I checked, by the way. The elevator in that building takes forty seconds.
You checked the elevator? Edie, who are you, an engineer now? Mrs. Gable didn’t walk to Delford. She couldn’t. Her hip is busted. She needed the cab at the curb. I didn’t call it. I flagged a yellow one—there are always yellow cabs in this city, even at night. You think I’m standing on the corner hailing a specific company like it’s a bus schedule? No. I pulled over. She got in. Then I got in. The driver? He took the scenic route. Or maybe I just sat there. In the back seat. Waiting for the rage to stop bubbling up. You’re analyzing logistics now? This isn’t a puzzle to solve. It’s a night. A messy, stupid night where I was late and you’re making it about math.
A yellow cab, on Bellrose, at 6:40 on a Tuesday. Sure. I've stood on that corner plenty of nights and waited twenty minutes for one that wasn't already full. But fine, let's say you got lucky. What I want to know is why the driver — this scenic-route driver — dropped you four blocks from where you told me you were. Because the receipt's not from the restaurant. It's from the pharmacy on Kell. I'm not doing math, Marc. I'm reading a piece of paper.
Kell? That’s… that’s the dry cleaner. Or the place that sells those ridiculous inflatable lawn flamingos. I didn’t go to a pharmacy. I went to get a pack of mints. The kind that taste like they’re dying. I needed something to chew on. The receipt is from the pharmacy because they have the mint section. Or maybe I picked up aspirin. My head was pounding, Edie. You know how it gets when you’re trying to explain why you’re thirty-five minutes late to someone who already knows you’re lying. It’s not a forensic audit. It’s a headache. And I bought mints. And maybe a Band-Aid for the papercut I got opening the receipt. So there.
You bought a Band-Aid for a papercut you got opening the receipt. That's the part I keep coming back to. That's not a detail a person invents, and it's not a detail a person needs unless they've already thought this through twice. I didn't ask about the receipt yet, Marc. I asked about the cab. You're three purchases deep at a pharmacy you weren't going to mention, on a corner four blocks from Bellrose, and I still don't have a restaurant name.
I didn’t say I bought a Band-Aid at the pharmacy. I said I got a papercut opening the receipt. From the cab driver. I was fumbling with it, trying to find a pen, and—cut my thumb. It bled a little. I needed a Band-Aid. The pharmacy was on Kell. The cab dropped me there because the driver was confused. He thought Kell was Bellrose. It happens. People get turned around. You’re acting like I orchestrated a heist. I was just… tired. Hungry. I went to a place called The Blue Porch. Or maybe The Green House. It doesn’t matter. I ate a burger. I came home. I didn’t go to a pharmacy for mints. I went because I needed to wash the blood off my thumb before I could type this message to you. Before I could lie about being "just leaving." That’s the truth. I was bleeding on the receipt.
The Blue Porch or The Green House. You don't know the name of the restaurant you ate at three hours ago, Marc, but you remember the thumb, the pen, the driver's confusion, the color of your blood on paper. That's a lot of texture for a burger you can't name. I'm not raising my voice. I'm just noting that the story keeps growing organs the longer I sit here. A cut thumb wasn't in it ten minutes ago. Now it's load-bearing.
Oh, give it a rest. The thumb thing slipped out. I was trying to be vivid, okay? You want texture? Here’s texture: I was hungry. I went to a place. I ate. I came home. The rest is noise. You’re making this into a mystery novel because you can’t handle that I might have just... been somewhere else. Somewhere you don’t know about. Maybe it was a bar. Maybe it was a park bench. I don’t know. I’m exhausted by the interrogation. You want a name? Call the health department. See if they remember a guy with a bloody thumb eating a burger at 7:15. Or just let it go. You’re holding onto this like it’s going to prove I love you less. It’s just a receipt. It’s just a thumb. It’s not a crime scene. Stop painting corpses on the walls.
"Just a receipt" and you can't tell me what's on it. I'm not painting anything, Marc, I'm holding a piece of paper with a timestamp and an address and you're the one filling in bars, park benches, drivers who can't read street signs. I didn't bring up a park bench. You did. I'm going to go make tea. When you remember which restaurant fed you, or which street the cab actually let you off on, you can tell me. I'm not slamming a door. I'm just done doing the work for you.
Fine. Make your tea. I’ll sit here in the dark. You think I’m hiding something? I’m just tired of your forensic accounting. The receipt is from a deli. On 4th. The one with the flickering neon sign that buzzes like a dying fly. I ate a pastrami sandwich. It was dry. The cab dropped me on 4th because the driver was late too. He was rushing to get home to his own mess. I didn’t lie about the thumb. I just… embellished. Because you made me feel like a suspect. But okay. 4th. Delicatessen. Pastrami. Now are you happy? Or do you want me to pull out the credit card statement? Go ahead. Check the transaction ID. It’s all there. Written in blood, or ink, or whatever bullshit you need to feel in control. Go make your tea. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just waiting for you to realize I’m not a puzzle. I’m just a guy who ate a sandwich.
A deli on 4th now. Fourth address tonight, Marc — Bellrose, Kell, the corner you flagged the cab from, and now 4th. I'm not going to pull the card statement, because you just offered it, and people who are telling the truth don't hand you the evidence like a dare. They just say the name the first time. I'll have my tea. You keep waiting.
I offered it because I’m done. I’m done with this charade. You want the statement? Fine. But you won’t look at it. Because you already know I’m lying. You just want me to admit it. You want me to say, "Yes, Edie, I was at the club on 5th. Yes, I was with Sarah." But it’s not true. It never was. I’m just a guy who ate a sandwich. On 4th. Or maybe Kell. Does it matter? You’re dissecting my life like it’s a frog in biology class. I’m not a specimen. I’m your husband. Or I was. Until you decided to turn our marriage into a crime scene. Drink your tea. It’s cold anyway. Like everything else.
Sarah. You just said Sarah. I didn't say that name, Marc, I never have — you did, right there, unprompted, in the middle of telling me it never happened. People don't invent a name and a club and then tell you it isn't true in the same breath unless the name's been sitting in their mouth for a while. I'm not touching the "husband" stuff right now. I want to know who Sarah is.
Sarah? What are you talking about? I didn't say Sarah. I said her. Or someone. You’re projecting, Edie. You hear a name because you want to. That’s your guilt talking, not mine. I was at a bar. With a guy. Mike? Mark? I can’t remember. The names blur together when you’ve been drinking. It’s not a lover. It’s just… noise. You’re twisting my words. You heard a ghost. I said "someone." I said "a club." Maybe I misspoke. Maybe I was thinking of that movie we saw last week. The one with the woman named Sarah. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Stop digging. You’re going to find a hole, and I’m not jumping in it for you.
You said Sarah. Full name, out loud, thirty seconds ago, and now it's a movie and a guy named Mike or Mark and a bar you weren't at either. I've got four locations, three names, and a Band-Aid I no longer believe in. I'm not digging a hole, Marc. You keep handing me the shovel and then acting surprised there's dirt on it. I'm going to drink my tea in the other room now.
It was a slip. People do it. My brain was frying. Sarah wasn’t a person. It was… the cat. The neighbor’s cat. Or a character in that stupid show you like. The one with the detective. I don’t know. I’m tired, Edie. I’m not trying to hide a lover. I’m trying to hide the fact that I spent three hours sitting in a parking lot, staring at my phone, waiting for a text that wasn’t coming. I didn’t go anywhere. I didn’t eat anything. I just sat there. And I panicked because I didn’t know what to tell you. So I lied. About the cab. About the deli. About the thumb. It’s all just noise to cover up the silence. You want the truth? The truth is boring. The truth is I was scared. And I’m sorry. But don’t pretend I’m some mastermind. I’m just a mess.
The neighbor doesn't have a cat, Marc. I fed it last winter when they were in Arizona — it's a beagle. So that's five stories now, and the newest one doesn't even survive the block. I'm not asking you to be a mastermind. I'm asking you to pick one lie and stay in it long enough for me to check it. You can't, so I'm going to assume the reason isn't panic. It's that there's nowhere that checks out.
Fine. Pick one. The deli on 4th. I was there. I ate a pastrami sandwich. It was cold. I didn’t go to the club. I didn’t see Sarah. I didn’t see Mike or Mark. I just went to get food because I was hungry and I didn’t want to cook. And I didn’t call a cab. I walked. I walked from the office, past the bank, past the pharmacy, to the deli. Then I walked back. I didn’t get a receipt. I paid cash. So there’s no cab receipt. There’s no pharmacy receipt. There’s just… me. Walking. In the dark. Eating a sandwich. Alone. You want to check it? Go ask the guy behind the counter. See if he remembers a guy with a bloody thumb. Or a guy named Marc. He won’t. Because I wasn’t there. I’m just tired of lying. I’m just tired of trying to explain why I’m not enough. So there. I wasn’t anywhere. I’m here. With you. Even if you hate me for it.
No cash, no receipt, except I'm holding one, Marc. Pharmacy on Kell, 6:40, sitting on the counter right now where you left it. So either that receipt belongs to somebody else's night, or you were there, and the deli and the walk and the beagle-cat and Sarah are just things you built around a piece of paper you forgot was in your pocket. I'm not asking you to be enough. I'm asking whose name is on this thing, because it isn't yours.
It’s mine. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s my name. Marc. It’s right there on the receipt. You’re reading it wrong. Or maybe it’s a copy? I printed it at work. I needed a copy for expenses. That’s why it’s in my pocket. I was grabbing it to put in the jar. I didn’t buy anything at the pharmacy. I just grabbed the paper. From the trash. Or from the counter. I don’t know. I’m confused. You’re twisting it. It’s not evidence. It’s just paper. Why are you making it into a weapon? It’s a receipt for a bag of chips. I bought chips. In the lobby. Before I came home. I ate them in the kitchen. You didn’t see them because they were in the wrapper. I threw the wrapper away. But I kept the receipt. For the chips. That’s it. Just chips. Stop looking at me like I’m a stranger. I’m just hungry. And you’re angry. And we’re both tired. Let it go. Please. Just let it go.
It's not your name on it, Marc. I never told you whose it was. I just said I was holding it. You said "it's right there" before you'd even seen it. That's the thing I'm going to remember about tonight — not the cab, not the deli, not the beagle. Just that. I'm taking my tea to the other room now.
I didn’t see the receipt. I saw your face. I knew you were holding it. I knew it wasn’t mine because you wouldn’t ask. If it was mine, you’d say, “Your name is on this.” You didn’t. You just said, “I’m holding it.” So I panicked. I assumed it was mine because that’s the only way I can control the narrative. If it’s mine, I can explain it. If it’s not… then I’m just a fool standing in the dark, lying to a woman who knows exactly how to break me. I’m not taking my tea. I’m staying here. I want to see what happens next. Do you want to scream? Do you want to cry? Or do you want to throw the receipt at my head? Go ahead. I deserve it.
I don't want to throw anything, Marc. I want the name on it, which is a woman's, and I want you to stop performing collapse at me like it's an answer. You're very good at making the room about how hard this is for you. It's not the same as telling me who Renata is. That's the name. I'm going to go sit with my tea now, and you can stay here composing whichever version you land on last.
Renata. You know the name. How the hell do you know the name? I haven’t said it. I haven’t even thought it in three years. You pulled it out of the ether. That’s not investigation, Edie. That’s… that’s something else. I’m not performing. I’m broken. You want the truth? I was with Renata. Not for sex. Never for sex. Just… coffee. At that terrible place on 5th with the sticky tables. She was crying. Her husband left. Again. I listened. I bought her a muffin. I came home at 7:15 because I felt guilty sitting there while she talked about nothing. I didn’t go to the pharmacy. I didn’t go to the deli. I went to Renata. And you knew. Of course you knew. You’ve been knowing for months. You’re just waiting for me to trip. Happy now? I’m not enough. She is. Or the memory of her is. Go drink your tea. I’m done.
A muffin and coffee at the sticky-table place on 5th, three years since her name's crossed your mind, and yet you had the whole scene ready — the crying, the husband, the guilt that got you home by 7:15. That's not a slip, Marc, that's a story with furniture in it. I didn't pull the name from the ether. I pulled it because I've been sitting on it a lot longer than three years too. I'm taking my tea now. Actually now.
You’ve been sitting on it? Renata? Don’t make me the villain in your detective novel. I didn’t know you knew. If you knew, why didn’t you say anything? Why let me rot here with the thumb and the deli? You’re enjoying this. You’re watching me dig my own grave. Renata’s dead, Edie. She died three years ago. That’s why the name comes up. That’s why I’m not lying about her. She’s gone. And you’re here, with your tea, acting like she’s in the next room. Stop it. Please. I can’t do this. I can’t be the liar when the truth is just… silence. Go ahead. Sit in the other room. I’ll be here. With the receipt. And the name. And the silence.
Then whose muffin was it, Marc. Dead women don't cry about husbands leaving again over sticky tables three hours before you walked in the door at 7:15. I'm not going to fight you on whether she's alive. I'm going to point out that a receipt from a pharmacy on Kell, timestamped 6:40, doesn't care whose ghost you want to argue about. Somebody bought something. Somebody real, today. I'm taking my tea now.
I didn’t buy a muffin. I bought aspirin. And a bandage. For the thumb. You want the truth? I went to Kell. I didn’t see Renata. I saw the guy from the pharmacy. The one with the glass eye. He recognized me. He asked if I was still seeing her. I said no. He laughed. He said, “She’s been asking.” I didn’t know what he meant. I bought the aspirin. I left. I didn’t go to the deli. I didn’t go to the club. I just… walked. I’m not performing. I’m just tired of lying to a woman who knows more than I do. Go drink your tea. I’m going to sit here. And I’m going to wait. For you to realize I’m not the villain. I’m just the guy who got caught. Again.
Again. There's the word I wanted. Not "for the first time," Marc — again. I'm not going to stand here and let you narrate your way to being tired instead of caught. The pharmacy's real. The thumb's fake. Renata's either dead or asking about you, pick one, I don't care which anymore tonight. I'm taking the receipt with me. You can sit with whatever's left.
You’re taking the receipt? It’s trash. It’s nothing. You think holding a piece of paper changes the fact that I’m sitting here, in the dark, while you parade around with your tea and your conclusions. You want me to pick one? Renata is dead. She’s been dead for three years. Stop dredging up corpses to fill your silence. The thumb is real. I cut it on the paper. That’s the only truth I have left. The rest is noise. You want to leave? Go. Take your tea and your receipt and your judgment. I’m not chasing you. I’m not explaining myself to a jury that’s already made up its mind. I’m just… here. In the wreckage. You can go. Please. Just go.