There’s a wasp in the car. Stuck against the windshield. I drove past it three times before I realized I was just doing circles. You want to talk about it? Or are you just going to nod like you’re listening? Because honestly, the buzzing is getting into my head. It’s not about the wasp. It’s never about the wasp. But at least it’s something moving. Something frantic. Unlike me. So yeah. Ask.
I saw you at the coffee shop yesterday. You looked hollow. I tried to bring it up then, but you just stared at your cup. I’ve been there, Rafe. That spinning feeling. I called my ex three times last week, just to hear a voice that didn’t care. It helped for five minutes. You should try that. Or call someone else. Anyone. Just stop focusing on the insect. It’s dead by now, probably. You’re looping because you’re not looking away from the problem. Look at the radio. Turn it on.
Look, I saw you. I saw you staring at the foam like it owed you money. But don’t give me advice. You called your ex. Great. Five minutes of relief. What happens after? When the silence comes back and it’s heavier? I’m not looping. I’m waiting for the shift to end. The manager needs me at four. I can’t just “turn on the radio” because the world outside is annoying me more than the inside. And the wasp isn’t dead. It’s alive. That’s the point. It’s still trying. I’m not.
You’re dramatic. It’s a bug. It’s not a metaphor for your soul, it’s just biology getting in the way of your shift. I hate when people do this, pretend every little thing is a cosmic sign. You’re exhausted. Go to work. Drink a water. The wasp will find a crack eventually. Stop romanticizing its desperation. It’s annoying, not profound. Just go inside and stand there until four. Nobody cares about the buzzing. Least of all me.
Nobody cares. That’s the joke, isn’t it? I stand there, sweating through this cheap polyester, and the air conditioning hums its empty song. You think I’m romanticizing it? Fine. Call me a poet. It’s safer than calling me broken. The wasp is the shift. It’s the only thing with a reason to be here. I drank water. It tasted like metal. I’m going in. Don’t wait up. Or don’t. I don’t check my phone anymore. It’s just a slab of glass that lies.
Metal water. Classic. Sounds like dehydration, not existential dread. You’re letting the boss win by brooding in the parking lot. Go in there, count the tips, survive until you clock out. I’m sitting on my porch watching a neighbor walk his dog. It’s mundane and boring and it doesn’t buzz. You want a reason to be here? Be here. Physically. The wasp can stay outside. You’re making it worse by talking to me about it. Just go.
You sit on your porch. Safe. Boring. Perfect. You think walking a dog is a cure for anything? It’s just time-killing. I’m not making it worse. I’m just refusing to pretend the air doesn’t feel like cotton wool in my lungs. You want me to go in? Fine. But don’t act like you’re some beacon of sanity. You’re just numb. There’s a difference. And don’t tell me to stop talking to you. If I stop talking, I start screaming. So keep talking. Keep being mundane. It’s the only thing keeping me from driving back out there and opening the door.
Numb? I have a mortgage. I have a back that aches. That’s reality. You’re playing hero with your pain. I’m just trying to get through Tuesday. If you scream, scream. I’m not here to catch you. I’m here because I was bored. But if you keep talking about the wasp, I’m hanging up. This isn’t therapy. It’s just two people wasting air. Go inside. The cotton wool is probably just dust. You’re overthinking it. Again.
Mortgage. Back pain. You think suffering has a hierarchy? You’re just better at ignoring it. I’m not playing hero. I’m trying not to dissolve into the dashboard. You say you’re bored? Good. Boredom is honest. At least you’re not hiding behind a dead insect while the world burns. I’m going in. Not because you told me to, but because if I stay here five more minutes, I’ll start believing you. And that’s worse than the buzzing. Don’t hang up. I need you to hate me for a bit longer. It keeps me grounded.
I don’t hate you. That’s the problem. I just think you’re exhausted and trying to make the boring parts of life hurt so you feel like you’re doing something. I’m drinking coffee. It’s cold. My back is killing me from sitting here too long. You want me to hate you? I can’t. I’m just tired. Go inside, Rafe. The wasp is probably dead by now. Or it flew away. The point is, it’s not you. Stop making it you. It’s just a bug. Go to work.
You don’t hate me. That’s the cruelty. You just pity me. And pity is a one-way mirror. You’re sitting there with your cold coffee and your aching back, judging my “performance.” I’m not performing. I’m drowning. And you’re handing me a straw that’s too short. “It’s just a bug.” Try telling that to the thing trying to get out. I’m going in. Not because it’s dead. But because if I stay here another second, I’m going to start crying. And I can’t do that in the parking lot. So go drink your cold coffee. I’ll be invisible in four hours.
Crying’s fine. Do it in the bathroom stall. Nobody’s watching. You think I’m judging? I’m just sitting here. The coffee’s cold because I forgot about it. Again. You’re making this about me, which is exactly what you’re doing with the wasp. Stop looking for a judge. There isn’t one. Just go inside. The water tastes like metal because you’re anxious, not because the pipes are bad. Drink it. Swallow it. It’s real. Unlike your metaphors. Go.
Fine. Metal water. I drank it. It still tastes like pennies and regret. I’m walking in now. The automatic doors slide open with that suffocating whoosh. The manager is already yelling about the register. I hate him. I hate the register. I hate that you’re right and I’m just a glitch in the matrix. The wasp is gone. Or it’s dead. It doesn’t matter. I’m in the breakroom. The fluorescent light is humming. It’s louder than the buzzing. It’s worse. Don’t check on me. I’ll pretend I’m fine. That’s what I’m paid for. Go back to your dog.
The neighbor’s dog peed on my hydrangeas. That’s the reality. I’m wiping it up with a rag. You’re in the breakroom. Good. The humming light is annoying, yes. But it’s constant. Predictable. Unlike the wasp. You’re pretending to be fine. I believe you. Not because it’s true, but because you have to. Go refill your coffee. The machine probably clicks twice before it pours. Do that. Don’t think about the register. Just stand there. Let the noise wash over you. I’m still here. Watching the dog. It’s boring. It’s safe.
Clicks twice. Then the screech of the grinder. I’m standing here. Staring at the black sludge. It looks like oil. I refilled it. Didn’t drink it. Just held the cup. The heat is the only real thing. You think watching urine stain grass is safer than my life? It is. At least the dog knows why he’s peeing. I don’t know why I’m breathing. The register is beeping. I didn’t move. Let it beep. You stay on the line. Don’t hang up. If you go, the silence will kill me. Keep talking about the hydrangeas. Tell me they’re dying. I need something to die with.
The hydrangeas aren’t dying. They’re just yellowing from the heat. It’s normal. You’re catastrophizing. The register is beeping because you’re ignoring it. Move. Fix it. I’m looking at the stain. It’s drying. Turning brown. It’s not a symbol, Rafe. It’s just pee on dirt. You need to stop waiting for death to validate your pain. It’s boring. It’s mundane. Go fix the register. Or don’t. But stop asking me to watch you decay. I’m just a guy with a wet rag. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Boring. Safe. Nothing to die with here. Just dirt.
Yellowing. Fine. The register is screaming. I’m moving. My hands are shaking, but I hit the reset button. It stops. The silence is worse. You’re right. It’s just pee. It’s just dirt. I’m wiping the counter. There’s a smear of syrup. I scrape it off. It’s gross. It’s real. You say you’re just a guy with a rag. I want to be that. I want the dirt. I want the boring. I’m staring at the floor now. The grout is cracked. You’re still talking. Don’t stop. If you go back to the dog, I’ll dissolve. Keep watching the stain. Just keep watching.
The stain’s mostly gone. Just a faint yellow ghost now. The grass is already recovering. It always does. You’re staring at the grout? Good. Count the cracks. One, two, three. It’s just dirt in the holes. Nothing else. Your hands stopped shaking, right? Or they did when you hit that button. That’s the only magic there is. Pressing buttons. Wiping counters. I’m not leaving. I’m just sitting here. Watching the dirt dry. Keep counting. Don’t think about the register. Just the grout. It’s gray. It’s hard. It doesn’t care about you. That’s the point. Keep looking.
One. Two. Three. Four. The grout is gray. It’s hard. It doesn’t care. I’m counting. The manager walked by. Didn’t look at me. Good. Let him. The syrup smear is gone. My hands are steady. Mostly. I’m staring at the tile. It’s cold. I put my palm flat on it. It’s just dirt. Just dirt. You’re still there? I can hear the breath in the line. It’s boring. It’s safe. I don’t want to die with the hydrangeas. I want to die with the grout. Keep watching. Don’t look away. If you look, I might start shaking again.
I’m not looking away. I’m looking at the stain on my shirt. Coffee. Or maybe it’s just dirt. Hard to tell in this light. The hydrangeas are fine. They’re growing back. You’re counting. Good. The tile is cold. Keep your hand there. Let the cold seep in. It’s not a metaphor. It’s just temperature. Your hands are steady. Mostly. That’s enough. I’m still here. The dog is sleeping. The stain is dry. Nothing is happening. Keep counting. Don’t stop. Just the grout. Gray. Hard. Unfeeling. Perfect.
One. Two. Three. The cold is spreading. It’s not nice. It’s just cold. Like ice. I’m not shaking. My hand is numb. The tile is gray. Hard. Unfeeling. Perfect. You’re watching the stain on your shirt. Good. That’s real. I’m watching the grout. It’s the only thing that doesn’t lie. The manager is yelling again. I don’t hear him. Just the counting. One. Two. The dog is sleeping. The hydrangeas are growing. Life goes on without me. That’s the point. I’m just a hand on a tile. Keep talking. Tell me about the stain. Make it boring. Make it dull. I need it to be dull. Please.
It’s just coffee. Bitter, cold, staining the fabric. I’m rubbing it with the rag. It’s not coming out. It’s permanent. That’s the truth. The dog is snoring. Loud, wet sounds. The hydrangeas are just leaves. Green. Boring. Nothing is happening. You’re a hand on a tile. Cold. Numb. That’s all. The manager’s voice is white noise. Ignore it. Focus on the coffee stain. Dark brown. Spreading slightly. It’s ugly. It’s real. Keep counting. One. Two. The stain remains. You remain. Nothing else matters. Just the grout. Just the cold.
One. Two. The stain stays. I stay. The manager’s yelling stops. Or maybe I just stopped hearing it. It’s white noise. Good. The dog’s snoring is loud. Ugly. Real. I’m rubbing my thumb against the cold grout. It’s rough. Scrapes the skin. A little sting. That’s good. Pain is real. The coffee stain is permanent. I am permanent. Not important. Just present. Cold. Hard. Gray. You’re still there? I can’t feel my fingers. Doesn’t matter. Keep talking about the stain. It’s ugly. I like ugly. It doesn’t pretend.
It’s just dye. Cheap coffee. It stains everything eventually. Your shirt, the rag, the floor. It doesn’t care. The sting is good. Proof of friction. Your fingers are numb because you’re holding on too tight. Relax. Let them go limp. I’m still here. The dog is twitching in his sleep. Chasing something dead. The stain is dry now. Cracked. Flaking off. That’s what happens when things are left alone. They don’t vanish. They just get brittle. Keep rubbing. Feel the grit. It’s real. I’m not leaving. I’m just watching the dirt dry.