Open by recounting the whole history, from the beginning. Push off from this if it helps: the smell of rain on hot tarmac.

Right. "Not angry." That’s what you say every time we talk. Like it’s a badge of honor. I remember that summer, too. The rain didn’t wash anything clean. It just made the grime slicker. Look, I’m not going to offer you a solution. I can’t. I told you four times already. My hands are tied by the very system that promised you order. So go ahead. Keep telling me you’re fine. It’s not like I have a choice but to listen.

Three forms. For a complaint about a form. That’s bureaucratic physics, Ivo. Friction. I had to request a misfiled invoice yesterday. Required a notarized letter from the original sender, who left the company in 2019. I sat at my desk for an hour staring at the blank cursor. My boss walked by, didn’t ask why I wasn’t working. Just sighed. The system isn’t broken. It’s working exactly as designed to wear you down until you forget what you wanted. I can’t sign off on your redress. HR requires Form 88-B. You don’t have it. Go home.

Parking is a joke. I spent twenty minutes circling the structure on 4th because some lawyer left their sedan running for "air conditioning." The rain makes the asphalt black, slick. I got locked out of my own unit last week. Key jammed in the lock. Had to pay a locksmith eighty bucks just to get inside. You say you’re not angry, Ivo, but you’re listing grievances like beads on a rosary. HR doesn’t care about your keycard. They care about liability. If you come in without a badge, they can’t prove you were there. Don’t go back. Sit in your car. Listen to the rain. It’s cheaper than therapy.

The Honda’s wipers are probably clicking out of sync. Annoying. I had a mechanic friend check mine last week. He said the motor was shot. I just bought a pack of dehumidifier bricks. Forty dollars. They smell like chalk and disappointment. Let the rug rot, Ivo. It’s just wool. You can’t fix a leak if the building owner ignores the work order. I submitted one for the roof at my place. Two months ago. They sent a contractor to look at it. He looked at the sky, shrugged, and left. It’s still raining. You want a boat? Drive into the lake. At least the water won’t ask for a receipt.

Neck pain. Classic. I’ve got a standing order for ibuprofen at the pharmacy on Elm. Three for the price of one. You should grab some. The algae smell is worse, yeah. But it’s honest. Unlike that ceiling. Click. Click. I hate that sound. My radiator does it too. Clank. Hiss. Dead air. I stopped looking up weeks ago. Just stare at your shoes. At least the floor holds you up. Go home. Let the rug stain. It’s just fabric. Nothing matters but the next breath. And the wipers. Keep them moving. Otherwise, you hear the silence. And that’s worse.

Elm Street is a ghost town. They’ve been renovating since before I started working there. I buy my pills at the gas station off I-95. Overpriced, but the lights work. March. Yeah. It’s just cold. Wet. The drip is rhythmic. Good. Gives you something to count. Less thinking, more listening. The plastic bottles are just trash. Toss them. Go back to the Honda. The wipers are a better clock than that leak. At least they keep moving. You’re stuck. I’m stuck. We’re all just waiting for the rain to stop. It won’t.

Wet dog. That’s not a smell, that’s a judgment. I miss my old terrier too. Died last November. Vet bill was two hundred dollars. Cash only. You’re waiting for the lease to expire? Or for the rain to stop? The lights on I-95 flicker because the transformer’s old. I saw a guy fix it once. Just walked up with a wrench. Now it’s dark again. Don’t wait, Ivo. Go to the gas station. Buy a coffee. It’s bad, but it’s hot. At least it’s something. The dog’s gone. The lease is paper. The rain is real. Drink it.

Burnt rubber. Good. It’s the only honest taste left. I stood under that awning last Tuesday. Some guy in a trench coat didn’t even break stride. Just swiped his screen. Rain hammering that corrugated tin. Like nails. Ivo, you say you’re not waiting, but you’re still there. The coffee’s cold now. Pour it out. Let it hit the ground. Match the rhythm. Drip. Hiss. I have to get back to the office. My boss is watching the clock. He always does. Don’t look at your phone. Look at the water pooling. It’s the only thing moving honestly. Go home. Or stay. Doesn’t matter. The rain doesn’t care.

Water moves fast. Puddles don’t care about your hate. I hate the damp too. My boots are ruined. Third pair this year. Leather swells, cracks, smells like wet dog. You’re right about the light. It dies hard in November. Or whatever month this is. You said March earlier. Whatever. The water’s just water. Gray. Dirty. Go home. The leak’s still dripping. The rug’s still wet. You can’t fix it. But you can walk through it. Feet first. Don’t look back. The coffee’s gone. The rain’s still here. That’s all you’ve got. Move.

Ankle deep. Cold. Good. Shock the nerves awake. I stepped in a pothole on 5th yesterday. Knee popped. Still hurts when it rains. The hallway’s dark because the bulb blew. I left it. Saves electricity. Drip. Drip. You’re home now. The leak is your metronome. Keep walking. Don’t turn on the light. Let the dark settle. The water in your sock is heavy. Heavy is real. Light is a lie from a gas station menu. Sit down. Let the damp in. It’s cheaper than therapy. And the boots are already gone.