Yeah. That generic blue swirl. Like someone spilled a galaxy and wiped it with a wet rag. I’m sitting in terminal B, watching a guy in a suit eat a sad salad. He’s checking his watch every four seconds. I don’t even know where I’m going. The airline said my flight is delayed. Again. I just stare at the pattern. It’s hypnotic in a depressing way. Want a sip of this terrible coffee? No, don’t answer. Just take it.
I’d rather drink straight from the pot. It’s cheaper. You look like you’re dissociating into the linoleum. At least there’s a predictable rhythm to the despair. My boss made me redo the Q3 projections because the font was “too aggressive.” I stared at a spreadsheet until my eyes burned. We’re both just waiting for the universe to blink. Drink the sludge. It’ll numb the regret.
"Too aggressive." I’m laughing, but it comes out wrong. My boss just screams until my throat bleeds. I drank the sludge. It tastes like burnt rubber. I think I left my scarf on the train. Or maybe I never had one. Rafe, stop looking at me like that. I’m fine. It’s just the carpet. The swirls are getting clearer. I think I see my face in them. No, that’s just the reflection of the fluorescent lights. They’re buzzing. Did you hear that?
Buzzing is good. Buzzing means the grid is holding. You’re spiraling, Omar. Stand up. Walk to the gate. You don’t remember the scarf, which means you never had one, which means you’re losing time. Great. I lost my keys yesterday and found them in the fridge. We’re all just glitching. Drink more coffee. The taste is grounding. At least the pain is sharp. Sharp is real. Vague is where the monsters live.
The monsters are in the font choices. Aggressive. That’s the real horror. I’m not spiraling. I’m just… recalibrating. You lost keys in the fridge. I left my life in a taxi. We’re stuck in the static. The coffee is cold now. Sludge. You’re right about the pain. Sharp is real. But I don’t want real. I want the carpet to stop moving. It’s shifting under my shoes. Or my shoes are. I can’t tell. Stop talking about grids. Just sit. Let the buzz drown us.
Sit? I’m standing. If I sit, I’m part of the furniture. You’re drifting, Omar. “Recalibrating” is just a fancy word for breaking down. I tried that at the office. Cried in the supply closet over a jammed stapler. Nobody cared. They just stepped over me. The carpet isn’t moving. It’s your inner ear. Check your balance. No, don’t. If you balance, you realize you’re still here. And here sucks. Take another sip. It’s colder now. More honest.
I don’t want honest. I want noise. You keep talking about balance like it’s a moral virtue. It’s just physics. I stepped out for air. The air was heavy. Smelled like wet dog and regret. I didn’t go back in. I sat on a bench. Watched a pigeon fight a wrapper. Winner was the wrapper. It won every time. You want me to drink the cold sludge? Fine. I drank it. It tasted like pennies. Like blood. Is that what you want? To taste the rust? I’m here. I’m not moving. Let the wrapper win. It’s cleaner.
You taste blood because you’re biting your tongue. Stop it. That’s not metaphysics, that’s self-harm with a side of bad poetry. I bought a plant yesterday. Forgot to water it. Dead by Tuesday. Maybe that’s the win. Stillness. No decisions. Just rot. But you’re not rotting, Omar. You’re pacing in place. I have to go back inside. The manager is watching. If I don’t fix the font, I lose the weekend. Go home. Sleep. The wrapper will wait. It’s already dead.
You’re leaving? Just like that? I’m pacing? My legs are lead. I didn’t bite my tongue. The coffee is metallic. You killed a plant. Tuesday. I forgot my mother’s birthday last month. Three years. The manager is watching you. Good. Let him watch. I’ll stay here with the wrapper. It’s honest. It doesn’t ask for font corrections. It just lies there. Dead. I’ll drink the rest. It’s cold now. Numb. You go fix the letters. I’ll fix the carpet. It’s moving again.
My legs are dead too. I’m standing on one. You’re not fixing the carpet. You’re fainting. Look at me. Stop staring at the floor. The wrapper is trash. You’re Omar. You exist. I hate that I care. It’s inefficient. My boss is screaming about kerning. The sky is gray. We’re all just waiting for the lights to go out. Drink the rest if it helps. Just don’t die in terminal B. It’s a hassle.
Kerning. You’re worried about the space between letters while I’m dissolving. Fine. I’ll drink the rest. It tastes like iron. You say you hate that you care. Good. Hate is efficient. Hate keeps you upright. I’m not fainting. I’m just… heavy. The gray sky is leaking. I can feel it through the roof. Go scream at your boss. I’ll stay here with the trash. It doesn’t need kerning. It just needs to be left alone. Don’t look at me. I’m already gone.
You’re not gone. You’re just lazy. I’m walking away. I have to. The font is screaming. My mother’s birthday. You’re right. I forgot my own anniversary. We’re a matched set of disasters. Go ahead. Dissolve. See if anyone notices. I’ll bring you a new coffee when I’m done. Or I won’t. It doesn’t matter. The trash won’t move. You might. Or you might not. Stop staring at the ceiling. It’s just concrete. Look at me. Just for a second. Before I go.
You didn’t forget. You just didn’t care. Same as me. I’m staring at the concrete because it doesn’t lie. You want me to look? Fine. I look. You look worse. The font is screaming. I hear it too. It’s in my teeth. You’re walking away. Good. Leave me with the trash. It’s simpler. I’ll stay here. Let the concrete take me. You go fix your letters. Make them safe. Make them quiet. I don’t want quiet. I just want to stop moving. You’re inefficient. I’m done.
Your teeth are fine. It’s the tinnitus. Get up. I’m not leaving you with the trash. That’s grotesque. You’re not done. You’re just tired of the performance. I hate that I’m doing this. I hate that I care. The font is screaming because I didn’t proofread. I’m a coward. We both are. Come on. Stand up. I’ll buy you a real coffee. Not the sludge. A real one. With sugar. It’s disgusting. We can be disgusting together. Just stand up.
Sugar. You think sugar fixes tinnitus? It just makes the buzzing sweeter. I’m not tired of the performance. I never acted. I just forgot my lines. You’re a coward. I’m a wreck. There’s a difference. Maybe. I can’t stand. My knees are water. You’re buying me a real coffee. Great. I’ll spend twenty minutes waiting in line for something that burns. I’ll hate you for it. That’s the point. Just go. Before I start crying. Or laughing. Same thing now.
Sugar doesn’t fix tinnitus. It fixes despair. Or at least masks it with synthetic vanilla. I’m buying it. You’re paying in spite. Fine. Let’s do that. I’m going to the kiosk. If you faint, I’m not dragging you. I’ll just step over you. Like the stapler. Like the plant. Go on. Cry. Laugh. I don’t care. I’m already sweating through my shirt. This is embarrassing. For both of us. Wait here. Don’t talk to the trash.
Synthetic vanilla. Right. You’re sweating. I can see it on your collar. Go. Get your sugar. I’ll sit here and rot. Don’t drag me. Dragging is for laundry. I’m not dirty clothes. I’m just… heavy. The tinnitus is louder now. Like a fan. A broken fan. In a wall. You’ll be back with the sludge. Or the sweet poison. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be here. Waiting for the wrapper to win. It always does. Don’t look back. I won’t be there.
I’m walking. My legs work fine. You’re the one paralyzed by metaphor. I’ll be back. Not because I care, but because I hate leaving a mess. And you’re becoming one. The fan is just the AC. Check the vents. Stop personifying the infrastructure. I’ll get the damn coffee. If you’re gone, I’ll tell them you left. They’ll believe me. I’m good at lying. It’s in the font. Wait here. Don’t die. It’s bad for business.
AC. You think it’s the AC. Fine. It’s the AC. I’ll check the vents. See if the air is actually moving or just pretending. You’re good at lying. I believe you. About the business. I won’t die. Dying is too much effort. I’ll just sit here. Become part of the concrete. You get your sugar. Bring it back. Or don’t. I’m starting to like the stillness. It’s quiet. Except for the fan. Which is definitely the AC.
It is the AC. It’s loud because it’s dying. Like you. Get up. I’m not waiting. The line is moving. I see a woman checking her phone, looking bored. That’s normal. I want to be bored. I want to hate my boss and miss my anniversary without the fan screaming. You’re slouching. Fix your posture. It’s not about posture, it’s about not collapsing. I’m grabbing the coffee. Don’t move. If you slide off, I’m not picking you up. I’m walking away. Finally.
Slouching. You’re obsessed with the architecture of my failure. Fine. I straighten. My spine cracks. A small sound. Under the fan. The woman with the phone is a monument to boredom. I hate her. I want to be her. You’re grabbing the coffee. Good. Go. Don’t look back. I’m not sliding. I’m sinking. It’s quieter down here. The concrete is cold. It doesn’t ask for posture. It just holds. You can lie to them. I won’t. I’m already gone. Almost.
Stop sinking. The floor is dirty. You’re making a scene. The woman is looking at us now. She’s judging your posture and my panic. I hate her. I hate that she’s normal. I’m holding the cup. It’s hot. It burns my fingers. Good. Pain is real. Come here. Take it. Don’t drink it yet. Just hold it. Warmth. Weight. Anchor. I’m not looking back because I’m scared you’ll be gone. I’m not looking back because I’m a coward. We’re both cowards. Drink the hot slime. Stand up.
Hot. It burns. Good. I take it. My fingers grip the cardboard. Weight. Anchor. The woman is still watching. I hate her gaze. It’s cleaner than yours. You say we’re cowards. Maybe. I drink. It’s scalding. It hurts my throat. I stand up. My legs shake. I’m not stable. I’m vibrating. You’re still here. That’s the worst part. You’re not leaving. I’m not drinking the sugar. I’m drinking the pain. It tastes like you.
Good. Keep shaking. At least you’re not dead. The woman looks away. Boring. I’m still here. You’re right. I’m a pest. But you’re standing. That’s more than I did yesterday when I cried in the supply closet. Drink it all. Scald your tongue. Feel something other than the AC. I hate that I’m doing this. I hate that you’re doing it. We’re trapped. Together. Finally. Something matches. Go. Walk. Don’t fall.
Tongue’s numb. Good. Less screaming. You’re a pest. A useful one. We’re trapped. Fine. I’ll walk. My legs are jelly. The floor is still dirty. I step over a wrapper. Not the same one. Different one. Blue swirl. I’m moving. You’re behind me. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Just walk. Toward the gate. Or out. Doesn’t matter. Just move. Away from the fan. Away from the font. Away from you. For now.
Move. You’re pathetic. Look at you, waddling like a newborn deer. I’m behind you. I’m not letting go. You think you’re walking away from me? Good luck. I’m the font. I’m the spacing. I’m the thing that holds you together. Keep walking. Don’t stop. If you stop, you sink. And I’m too tired to dig. Just go. Get on the plane. Or don’t. Just don’t die in the hallway.
Newborn deer. Cute. I’m waddling. You’re holding me up. The font. The spacing. I hate that it works. I’m heading for the gate. Or the exit. My legs are fire. The sugar is kicking in. It’s sweet and gross. Like us. You’re behind me. I can feel your eyes on my back. Don’t let go. I’m not sinking. Yet. Just walking. One foot. Then the other. The carpet is fading. The gray sky is getting closer. I’m not dying. Not today.
Fire is good. At least it’s not numb. The sugar is doing its job, or it’s just caffeine poisoning. Same result. You’re walking. That’s the victory. Tiny. Ugly. I’m right there. I’m not letting go. You’re heavy. I’m tired. But we’re moving. The exit is bright. Squinting is a natural response. Keep your head down. Don’t look at the sky. It’s empty. Just keep walking. One foot. Then the other. We’re a mess. But we’re a moving mess. Finally.