I don’t want to be difficult. It’s just that yellowed plastic. You know the kind? From that microwave I bought in ’08. It’s not the smell, it’s the hue. That sickly, translucent amber. I keep telling myself it’s just oxidation, but it feels like a judgment. A slow, chemical sneer. I’m not angry. I swear. It’s just… persistent.
You’re fixating on the microwave’s hue. It’s irrelevant. We discussed this three times. The contract deadline is Friday at noon. I cannot extend it. Your feelings about plastic oxidation do not alter the legal obligations. Please sign the documents. They are on the table. The pen is here. Do not delay further. The consequences are already set in motion.
Right. The legal obligations. How droll. You think I’m stalling? I’m breathing. Is that a breach? I keep saying I’m not angry. But that pen… it feels like it’s been waiting for me. Since ’08. Or maybe just since Tuesday. I’m not difficult. I’m just… precise. The plastic doesn’t lie. Does the ink? Sign? I’ll sign. Eventually. But don’t expect it to stick immediately. It’s not about the paper. It’s about the weight of it. And the hue. God, the hue.
You’re rambling. The contract isn’t a poem. It’s a fifty-page liability waiver. Stop looking at the pen. Look at the signature line. It’s right there. You said you’d sign by noon. It’s 11:45. I’ve already told you I can’t move the deadline. Again. You’re making this about plastic when it’s about non-disclosure. The amber hue is irrelevant to the indemnity clause. Just sign.
Fifty pages. I read the first. And the last. The middle is just noise. Non-disclosure, indemnity, blah blah. I’m not angry. I’m just tired of the formality. That plastic microwave was honest, Ivo. It broke when it was supposed to. These contracts pretend to be eternal. They aren’t. They’re just ink on paper. Like that pen. It’s dry. Look. It’s dry. I’m not angry. But if you hand me that pen again, I might throw it.
It’s not dry. I tested it this morning. In this office. You’re lying because you can’t face the reality. The microwave is trash. It broke because you used it to heat metal. Again. I’ve explained this twice. The pen works. I am not going to argue with you about stationery while you ignore the clause on page forty-two. Sign the document. Now. Before the window closes.
Used it for metal? Please. I used it for soup. You’re twisting facts to feel in control. Page forty-two is fine. It’s the preamble I hate. The tone. Condescending. I’m not lying. I’m tired. You’re the one testing pens like a maniac. I’m not angry. But if you keep talking about soup, I might laugh. And that would be worse. The deadline is looming. I know. I feel it. It’s heavy. Heavier than plastic. Sign? Fine. But I’m doing it your way, which means slowly. Painfully.
You’re stalling. Page forty-two is fine? You haven’t even looked at the definitions. You’re pretending the preamble is the issue because it’s easier than reading the liability caps. I’m not testing pens. I’m ensuring execution. You say you’re tired. I say you’re obstructing. The deadline is approaching. I’ve told you four times I can’t fix your hesitation. Stop talking about soup. Sign. Now.
I didn’t say I hadn’t read the definitions. I said I didn’t care. Liability caps. Names. The usual. You’re so focused on the ink you miss the point. The microwave isn’t trash. It’s a relic. You want a signature? Take it. But don’t act like you’re saving me. I’m not hesitating. I’m just… waiting. For the right moment. Which isn’t now. You’re breathless. Relax. I’m not angry. Just… particular. The paper is yellowing too, you know.
The paper is not yellowing. It is standard office stock. You are projecting. I am not breathless. I am efficient. You are delaying. The deadline is in forty minutes. I cannot wait for your "right moment." It does not exist. You are not particular; you are avoiding. Sign the line. Now. Or we proceed without it. There is no other option. I have said this. Clearly. Repeatedly. Stop talking about the microwave. It is irrelevant.
Forty minutes. Ivo, you’re vibrating. Efficient. Right. That’s why you’re sweating through your cuffs. The paper isn’t yellowing? Check the edges. See that faint stain? That’s not standard. That’s grease. From the microwave. Which you didn’t clean. I’m not avoiding. I’m observing. You want a signature? Fine. But don’t pretend this is about liability caps. It’s about control. And I’m done handing that over. Take the paper. Or don’t. I’m not angry. Just… done.
I am not sweating. You’re imagining things. The paper is clean. You’re projecting your obsession onto inanimate objects. I do not care about the grease. I care about the signature. You say you’re done? Then stop talking. You have forty minutes. Use them to read page forty-two. Or don’t. The consequence is fixed. I cannot change it. I have said so. Stop looking for control. It’s not there. Sign.
I’m not imagining the sweat on your upper lip. It’s there. And the paper? It’s stiff. Stale. Like you. Page forty-two is a trap. I know it. You know it. But you’re too busy counting minutes to notice the ink’s fading already. No, seriously. Look. It’s turning grey. Not yellow. Grey. The apocalypse isn’t coming, Ivo. It’s just leaking from the cartridge. I’m not angry. I’m just watching the end. Sign if you want. I won’t stop you. But it’s already too late.
The ink isn’t leaking. You’re hallucinating. Page forty-two is standard. It’s not a trap. It’s liability. You’re the one creating drama over stationery. I am not stale. I am professional. You have thirty-five minutes. I cannot fix your delusion. I’ve said it four times. The deadline is real. The paper is clean. The ink is black. Stop looking for the apocalypse in a cartridge. Sign. Or walk out. But don’t pretend you’re saving me from grease. You’re just lost.
I’m not lost. I’m bored. You talk about liability like it’s a shield. It’s a shroud. Page forty-two is fine. I’m fine. You’re the one trembling. Look at your hands. Shaking. That’s not professionalism. That’s fear. Fear of the clock. Fear of the plastic. I’m not angry. I’m just... waiting for you to break. Thirty-five minutes. Plenty of time for the ink to dry. Or fail. Sign. Or don’t. I’ve already decided.
I am not trembling. You’re tired. Your eyes are darting. Page forty-two is standard. You’re fabricating fear. I am calm. I have told you four times I cannot change the deadline. The ink is black. The paper is white. The microwave is irrelevant. You’re bored? Then read the damn document. Or leave. But don’t pretend you’re waiting for me to break. I am not breaking. Sign. Now.
My eyes dart? I’m checking the corners of the room. You’re so focused on the paper you’ve missed the lightbulb flickering. Page forty-two. Fine. Read it. See how the words blur? That’s not you. That’s the glare. You say you’re calm. Your throat clicks. Every time you swallow. It’s loud. Ivo, look at me. Not the pen. Me. I’m not angry. Just… tired of this performance. The deadline’s ticking. Let it tick. I’ll sign when the bulb dies. Then we’ll see who’s really broken.
The bulb isn’t flickering. It’s stable. 60 hertz. You’re hallucinating noise. My throat is fine. You’re inventing symptoms. I am not performing. I am executing. Page forty-two is liability. Read it. Or don’t. The deadline is approaching. I cannot fix your perception. I’ve said it. Stop watching me. Watch the clock. Not the bulb. Sign. Now. Before the window closes. I am not breaking. I am waiting. For you to choose.
Sixty hertz? You sound like a metronome. Clicking away. I’m not hallucinating. I’m noticing. You’re vibrating. It’s deafening. Page forty-two is fine. I’ll sign. But look at your tie. It’s crooked. You don’t even know. That’s the real liability. Not the clause. The chaos. I’m not angry. Just… amused. You’re waiting for me to choose? I already did. I chose silence. Sign yourself, Ivo. I’m done watching. The bulb’s fine. You’re not.
You chose silence? You’ve been monologuing for twenty minutes. Your tie is straight. I checked in the mirror. You’re the one who can’t focus. The deadline is twenty minutes away. I am not waiting. I am executing. You say you’re done? Then stop talking. The paper is there. The pen is there. Sign it. Or don’t. But stop pretending you’re in control. You’re not. I’ve said it. Clearly. Repeatedly. It’s over. Now. Sign.
My tie? You checked? That’s intimate, Ivo. Creepy, really. Twenty minutes. The air’s getting thin. You’re executing. I’m surviving. Page forty-two isn’t liability. It’s a confession. Yours. Sign it. Fine. Hand me the pen. But don’t think this fixes the hum. Or the plastic. Or you. I’m not angry. Just… weary. You won. Take the paper. I’m done watching. Go. Before the bulb finally dies.
You’re taking the pen? Finally. Don’t drop it. It’s not about the hum. It’s about the signature. Line three. Bottom left. Your name. Not your feelings. Just ink. I am not winning. I am completing. You say you’re weary. Good. Rest. But sign. Now. Before the deadline. I have said it. Four times. Don’t hesitate. The pen is heavy? No. It’s light. Sign. Do it.
My hand’s steady. Mostly. Line three. Got it. You’re vibrating again, Ivo. It’s pathetic. The ink flows. Smooth. Like butter on that ancient microwave. I’m signing. Yes, I’m signing. But don’t look so triumphant. You’re not completing anything. You’re just… enduring. Like the plastic. Like the light. It all fades. I’m not angry. Just… tired of watching you pretend this matters. There. Done. Happy? The paper’s dry. It’s already yellowing. You’re just slow.
You missed the initial. It’s right there, Jo. Above your name. Not below. You’re sloppy. The paper isn’t yellowing; it’s shadow. Stop watching me. I’m not triumphant. I’m annoyed. Fix the initial. Now. Before I revoke your signature for negligence. The deadline is ten minutes away. Don’t make me wait. I’ve told you. Again. Correct it. Be precise. Or it’s void.