Petrichor. Obviously. That ozone spike before the front hits. I was telling the guy at the deli, he laughs, like he doesn't know the chemistry of aliphatic hydrocarbons. He doesn't. Smells like wet dog and regret, that’s what it does to me. Makes my knees ache. You feel that?
Petrichor is just geosmin, Jo. It’s not some mystical sigh from the earth. But yeah, the pressure drop is messing with my sinuses. I was at that place on 4th, the one with the flickering neon, and the barista got my order wrong. Again. She has this look, like she’s waiting for me to snap. I didn’t. I just took my coffee and left. Same way you take that regret. Knees ache? Mine do too. Old injury from that cycling trip to Jersey. Not that I’d ever go back. The roads there are trash.
Geosmin is fine. But the aldehydes? That’s the heavy lifting. You think scent is just molecules? It’s memory. That barista’s look, yeah, I get it. I had a meeting yesterday with some architect who spent an hour talking about “visual weight” on a spreadsheet. I nodded. I always nod. Makes my shoulders seize up. Jersey’s fine, Edie. You just hate that you didn’t win.
Aldehydes smell like desperation. Honestly. That architect probably couldn't draw a straight line if his job depended on it, which, knowing him, it does. I didn’t lose. I just refused to drive six hours back for a weekend where I’d spend three hours stuck in traffic and the other three arguing with Dave about tire pressure. Dave’s an idiot. He still thinks leaded gas is better for old engines. My shoulders seize up because I spend all day staring at spreadsheets that don’t make sense, not because of some cycling race I’ll never talk about again. You nod because you’re terrified of silence, Jo. Admit it.
Dave’s a dinosaur. Leaded gas? Please. I work in data entry. Spreadsheets are my life. You’re projecting. I nod because I’m polite. Not terrified. You’re the one staring at your phone, waiting for a text that isn’t coming. Classic. Jersey’s roads are paved with good intentions. And bad asphalt. Same thing.
Data entry. Right. You probably alphabetize your socks. I’m not waiting for a text, Jo. I’m waiting for the wifi to stop dropping packets so I can finish this report. It’s tedious. It’s dull. It’s exactly what I asked for. And don’t give me that “good intentions” line. You know as well as I do that bad asphalt cracks under pressure. Just like people. I saw Dave yesterday. He was wearing that ridiculous windbreaker. Looked like a lost tourist. I didn’t say anything. I just kept walking. My knees are killing me anyway. Bet you’re glad I’m the one in pain. Admit it.
Alphabetize? Please. I group by color. It’s efficient. And I’m glad you’re in pain? No. I’m annoyed. Because now I have to listen to you whine about your knees while my own back is screaming from that ridiculous chair they bought from the warehouse sale. Dave’s jacket was bright yellow. Like a caution sign. Which, given his driving, it should have been.
Group by color. Of course. You’re practically a rainbow in a cubicle. And yes, the chair is trash. I told the office manager that the upholstery breathes less than a plastic bag, but did she listen? No. She just nodded that polite, terrifying nod of yours. And Dave’s jacket wasn’t a caution sign; it was an assault on the eyes. Neon yellow. Who wears that? It’s like walking into a construction site without a helmet. My back aches from sitting, not from whining. You’re the one squirming. I can hear you shifting. Stop it. It’s making me dizzy. And for the record, I didn’t say I was in pain. I said my knees ache. There’s a difference. One is a complaint, the other is a fact.
Neon yellow is a cry for help, Edie. Not an assault. You’re vibrating. It’s the caffeine. Or the heat. Or the fact that you’re holding your breath again. Stop watching me. I’m just sitting here. Same as you. Squirming is just… adjusting. For comfort. Not because I’m listening to every syllable you spit out. Your knees ache. Fine. Mine grind. We’re even. Now shut up and let the report compile.
Adjusting? Sure. You’re wiggling like a worm on a hook. I’m not vibrating, I’m cold. This building’s thermostat is broken, as usual. Maintenance says they’ll fix it by Friday. It’s Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. Time blurs when you’re sitting in this draft. And I’m not holding my breath. I’m just… focused. On the screen. On the progress bar. It’s stuck at 98%. For ten minutes. Probably corrupted file. Typical. You want me to shut up? Fine. But don’t blame me when the report crashes and we both have to redo it. I’m not listening to you spit. I’m listening to the hum of the fridge. It’s rattling. Like your chair. Annoying.
Friday? Maintenance promised me last month. They never fix anything. Just tape. That fridge has been rattling since the Renfro incident. You’re imagining the cold. It’s dry in here. Stale air. Your brain’s just frying from that stuck bar. Don’t look at me. I’m not holding my breath. I’m waiting for the Wi-Fi to die so I can leave. Like you want to. Your knees ache. Mine don’t. Stop shifting.
The Renfro incident wasn’t an accident, Jo. It was incompetence. Simple, unadulterated incompetence. And my knees don’t ache, they throb. There’s a difference. One is passive, the other demands attention. Like that fridge. It’s been rattling since the summer Dave tried to fix the filter with duct tape and a prayer. It didn’t work. It made it worse. I’m not imagining the cold. I’m feeling it in my teeth. You’re the one sweating, Jo. I can see it. A little sheen on your forehead. Typical. You always get hot when you’re lying. You’re not waiting for the Wi-Fi to die. You’re waiting for me to crack. To say something dumb. I won’t. I’m just sitting here. Letting the heat rise. Letting it suffocate you. You’re shifting more now. Admit it. You’re uncomfortable. Because you know I’m right. About the tape. About the Renfro thing. Everyone knows Dave’s a liability. Even the fridge knows. It rattles in warning.
Renfro was a misfiled invoice. Not a disaster. You’re reading too much into it. And I’m not sweating. It’s the humidity. That draft is killing me. You’re wrong about Dave. He’s competent. Just… particular. Like you. With your throbbing knees. Stop analyzing my face. It’s just a face. Not a map. The fridge rattles because it’s old. Not because it judges us. Sit still. You’re driving me mad.
Competent. Right. Dave’s a tiger. I’ll bet he organizes his pens by width. And it’s not my face you’re sweating over, Jo. It’s the silence. The dead air between the rattle and the hum. I’m not analyzing you. I’m observing. There’s a difference. One is scientific, the other is… intimate. And I don’t want to be intimate with you. I want to leave. But I can’t. Because of the report. And because if I stand up, you’ll think I’m running. So I sit. And I throb. And you shift. It’s a dance. A terrible, stiff dance in a room that smells like wet dog. You say it’s humidity. I say it’s fear. Of the invoice. Of Dave. Of me. Of the cold. Whatever. Just stop looking at me. It’s making my knees ache more. Or less. I don’t know anymore.
Humidity. It’s always humidity. You’re paranoid. Dave’s a tiger? Please. He’s a goldfish in a suit. And I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the door. The one with the peeling paint. You’re the one staring. At my hands. At my face. You want to read into it. Go ahead. It’s just a face. And a door. And a report that’s about to crash. Then we’ll both run. Alone.
Goldfish in a suit. That’s actually kind of poetic. Tragic, but poetic. He blinks a lot. Like he’s waiting for a flake of food that never comes. And I’m not staring at your hands. They’re twitching. Nervous energy. You’re looking at the door because you’re scared of the silence. Of what happens when the screen goes black. The peeling paint is just peeling paint, Jo. It’s not a metaphor. It’s neglect. Like everything else here. And I’m not running. I’m waiting. For the crash. For the reset. For you to finally say something real. Instead of talking about humidity. And Dave. And your hands. Stop moving them. It’s distracting. My knees are fine now. Thanks for worrying.
Poetic? Please. It’s depressing. And my hands aren’t twitching. They’re just… resting. You’re obsessed with my hands. Weird. The paint isn’t neglect. It’s character. You’re the one seeing metaphors everywhere because you’re bored. Fine. I’ll sit still. Like a statue. While you stew in your cold, throbbing silence. Hope the crash comes quick, Edie. I’m done talking about Dave. He’s nothing. You’re the one who won’t leave.
Statue. Right. You’re holding your breath, Jo. I can see your ribs expanding. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a bellows. And I’m not obsessed with your hands. They’re just... limp. Dead weight. Unlike yours. Which are clenched. In your lap. Hiding. You say you’re done talking about Dave, but you keep bringing him up. Indirectly. Through me. I’m not leaving because I have nowhere to go. The office is empty after six. The street is cold. And dark. And full of people who don’t care if you freeze. So I sit. And I throb. And I wait. For the crash. For you to break. For the silence to end. It’s not boring. It’s heavy. Like the air before a storm. You feel it. Don’t lie. Your knees are crossing. Tight.
My knees aren’t crossing. They’re just… settled. You’re reading into muscle tension like it’s a scripture. I’m not holding my breath. I’m conserving oxygen. Because this room is suffocating. And Dave’s not a metaphor. He’s just annoying. You’re the one projecting. Saying I want you to break? Pathetic. I want the screen to go black so I can go home and sleep. You can stay here with your statue act and your throbbing knees. See if I care.
Conserving oxygen. Sure. Keep that up. You’ll pass out before the crash, and then who’ll be there to witness the screen going black? Dave’s not annoying, Jo. He’s a hazard. Like your posture. It’s a disaster. You think you’re winning by staying still? You’re just waiting. Waiting for me to snap. To scream. To throw something. I won’t. I’m too tired. And cold. The cold is in my bones now. Deep down. Where the throbbing lives. You say you want to sleep. Good. Go. I don’t care if you go. I don’t care if you stay. I’m just here. Watching the progress bar. It’s still at 98%. Lying. Always lying.
Lying? It’s buffering. You think it’s malicious. It’s just incompetence. My posture is fine. You’re just squinting because the screen is flickering. I’m not waiting for you to scream. I’m waiting for you to admit you’re terrified of the dark outside. That’s why you’re staying. Not for me. For the light. The blue glow. Safe. Predictable. Go ahead. Throb. I’m done.
Terrified of the dark? Please. I hate the dark because it’s loud. Cars. Sirens. People shouting. Better the blue glow. At least it hums at a frequency I can ignore. And my posture is fine, Jo. You’re just squinting because you’re tired of pretending. We’re done? We were done ten minutes ago. You’re still here. Shifting. Squirming. You want me to leave so you can breathe. But you won’t move. You’re glued to that chair. Like I’m glued to this screen. 98%. Still. Lying. I’m not thropping. I’m vibrating. With rage. At the screen. At you. At the cold. At the wet dog smell. Go home. If you can. See if I care. I’m staying right here. Until the light dies.
Vibrating with rage? At a progress bar? You’re unhinged. I’m not glued. I’m anchored. There’s a difference. And I’m not leaving you here with the dead screen. I’m waiting for the HVAC to kick in. Until then, you can vibrate. You can rage. Just stop shaking the table. My coffee’s about to spill. And if it hits the keyboard, you’re buying me a new one. Not that I care. Go home. Or don’t. I’m staying.
Anchored. Right. You’re stuck to the upholstery, Jo. And I’m not shaking the table. The vibration is internal. It’s in my teeth. It’s in the floorboards. The coffee isn’t going to spill. You’re gripping the cup so hard your knuckles are white. Like your hands. Like your face. And I’m not buying you a keyboard. You’re welcome. The HVAC isn’t kicking in. It’s dead. Just like the signal. Just like Dave’s brain. You say you’re staying, but your eye is twitching. A tiny spasm. Beneath the left lid. You want to leave. You want to run into that cold, dark, loud street. But you can’t. Because you’re scared of the quiet at home. Scared of your own thoughts. So you stay. And you drink. And you wait for the screen to die. It won’t. It never does. It just watches. Like me.
White knuckles? That’s grip strength. You’re imagining the twitch. It’s eye strain. From staring at that lie for an hour. I’m not scared of the quiet. I like it. The cold is fine. It keeps you sharp. Dave’s brain is irrelevant. You’re the one vibrating. In your teeth. In your bones. In that stupid report. Let it crash. I’m not buying you a keyboard. You can lick the screen. I’m going home. Alone. Finally. Shut up.
Go. Run. Into the dark. I don’t care. You’ll freeze before you reach the corner. That’s what happens when you’re so obsessed with “sharp” you forget you’re brittle. And I’m not vibrating. I’m humming. A low frequency. Like the fridge. Like your anxiety. You think I’m staring at the lie? I’m staring at the crack in the screen. The pixel that’s been dead since the Renfro invoice. It’s a black hole. Swallowing everything. Including you. You say you like the quiet? You’re talking. Constantly. Denying. Accusing. It’s noise, Jo. Pure noise. And I’m not buying you a keyboard either. Lick it yourself. Or don’t. Just stop moving. Your chair is squeaking. It’s the loudest thing in the room. Louder than the fridge. Louder than my knees. Louder than the crash that’s coming. Wait for it.