Open by talking about something else entirely, deliberately. Push off from this if it helps: the smell of rain on hot tarmac.

Ugh. The audacity of coworkers to treat basic weather events like civic duties. I get it. That smell is violent in its banality. I had to sit through a three-hour meeting where Dave from Accounting talked about his hydroponic tomatoes while the AC was broken. I just stared at a stain on the ceiling. You didn’t stand by the window? Smart. Save your energy for the actual disaster of trying to explain to your mother why you’re still single at twenty-eight. She thinks it’s a phase. It’s not. It’s a lifestyle choice. A terrible one, but a choice.

Dave’s tomatoes are a cry for help. I saw him talking to his basil like it owed him money. Anyway, good job maintaining that boundary. Not being at the window is a tactical victory. I tried that once, just leaning against the doorframe during a team laugh track. Looked like I was holding back a riot. No one thanked me. My mother calls every Tuesday at 6 PM sharp. I let it go to voicemail. The guilt is a heavy coat, but at least it keeps you warm.

I don’t call back. If I call, I start explaining the promotion I didn’t get, and then I’m crying in my car in the grocery store parking lot. Again. I can’t do that dance. The silence is safer. It’s a standoff. I know she’s calling, she knows I’m ignoring her. We’re just waiting for one of us to blink. Usually it’s me, but not on Tuesday. Tuesday I’m armored. You’re good at that, four minutes of nothing. I’d panic. I’d fill the silence with noise until it snapped.

I didn't skip it. I buried it. Under reports, under coffee orders. The promotion went to Kevin. Kevin, who thinks "synergy" is a personality trait. I sat in that stairwell, second floor, listening to the hum of the vending machine below. It was gross. I’m eating stale pretzels from my desk drawer now. Don’t look at me like that. It’s just salt. I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m asking why your mother doesn’t just accept the four minutes. It’s a boundary. A small, pathetic one, but it’s yours.

Kevin is a nightmare. I watched him take credit for my Q3 projections in the all-hands meeting. He smiled that tight, shark smile. I didn’t say anything. I just chewed my pen cap until it tasted like plastic. That’s the job now. Swallowing the plastic. You’re right about your mom though. It’s easier. If it’s a scheduling issue, it’s fixable. If it’s... whatever this is... it’s not. I’m just glad I didn’t bring up the tomatoes. Dave would have tried to gift me one. I can’t handle the guilt of a tomato.

Saying something would’ve started a conversation. I don’t do conversations. I do damage control. If I’d spoken, Dave would’ve asked for my take on Kevin’s “vision.” I’d have to lie. Or tell the truth and get labeled “difficult.” I chose the pen cap because it doesn’t talk back. It just breaks. Unlike Kevin, who keeps growing like a moldy patch of cheese. You’re right about the stairwell though. It’s just a box. A metal box with a vending machine drone. I’m sitting in my car now, eating pretzels. The engine is off. It’s quiet. Finally.

The quiet is fine. It’s the thinking that’s the problem. My brain doesn’t shut off. It just switches to replay mode. Kevin’s face. Dave’s basil. Your mother’s voicemail. I’m sitting here because I can’t go inside yet. The office feels like a trap. A glass box where everyone pretends they’re happy about synergy. I should probably eat the pretzels. They’re stale. Crunchy in a bad way. Like chewing on regret. I’ll go back in when the sun goes down. Or when I find a better spot. The stairwell’s probably full of people now. Dave’s probably watering something.

"Regret-crunchy" is trash, but I’ll buy a box. Dave’s basil won’t survive the weekend anyway. It’s pathetic. I’m staring at the steering wheel. There’s a gum wrapper stuck to the underside. I’ve been meaning to peel it off for three years. I just keep thinking about the effort. The finger grease. It’s not about the gum. It’s about the fact that I’m choosing to leave it there. Because moving it means admitting I’m here, and I’m not. I’ll eat the pretzels. But only if you promise not to ask about Kevin’s “synergy” later. That’s a line. I won’t cross it. You won’t cross it. Deal?

Close enough. We’re hoarding trash. I’m looking at the wrapper again. It’s stuck under the ledge. If I pull it, the adhesive tears. Messy. I hate that. I hate the mess. I’m eating a pretzel. It tastes like dust. My throat feels tight. I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s not sadness. It’s just pressure. The car is hot. I should roll down the window. But then the smell hits. Wet tar. Wet dust. I don’t want to go back in. Not yet. Let me sit here a minute longer. Just a minute. Please don’t ask me to leave.

Fine. I’m breathing. In. Out. The pretzel is dissolving. It’s not dumb. It’s salt. Salt is good. I like salt. It makes you thirsty. Maybe I should drive somewhere. No, not there. Nowhere. Just here. The dashboard is sticky. I keep touching it. It’s like gum. But worse. It’s the dashboard. I’m not crying. My eyes are just... dry. From the heat. It’s hot. I should roll it down. No. The tar. I hate the tar. But I like the heat. It’s the same feeling. Stuck. Tess? You’re still there? Don’t leave. Just... stay.

Okay. Just sitting. The clock on the dash is broken. Blinking 12:00 over and over. It’s mocking me. Or maybe it’s just dead. I don’t care. I’m not dead. Not yet. The pretzel bag is crinkling. I hate the sound. It’s loud. But you’re not leaving. Good. I don’t want to be alone with the blinking zero. It feels like waiting for a sentence. I’m eating another one. The dust is getting in my teeth. I’m not brushing them. Let them be there. Let everything be there. Just the heat. And the zero. And you. Stay.

Okay. Yes. I’m okay. Just... tired. The heat is getting to me. I think I’ll open the window now. Just a crack. Let the tar in. Let the rain smell out. It’s not a big deal. I’m just sitting here. With you. That’s enough. For now. I’ll eat the rest of the pretzels. Then I’ll go in. Kevin can have his synergy. I have my dry eyes. And my sticky dashboard. It’s a life. A weird one. But it’s mine. You can stay. Or go. I don’t care. Really. I do. But I don’t care.