You busy right now, or can you talk for a bit? Not urgent, just — I keep circling something and not saying it, which is annoying even to me.
Anyway. Escalators. Did you know there's a guy whose whole job is riding them for inspection reports? I read that somewhere. Sounds miserable.
I am rather occupied with a spreadsheet that refuses to align, so I cannot offer you my full attention. But I am listening, in a fragmented way. The escalator man sounds like a character from a bad novel, not a real profession. It is a strange image, though. A man moving upward without exertion, inspecting the teeth of the machine. I suppose it is better than my office. At least he is not staring at a screen until his eyes bleed. You were circling something. I can feel you circling it. It is annoying.
The teeth of the machine, yeah — that's exactly it, those little metal grooves at the top that catch your shoe if you're not paying attention. I got my sandal stuck in one once. Whole different story though.
I was going to say something about — no. What's wrong with the spreadsheet.
The spreadsheet is a failure of geometry. The columns refuse to acknowledge their borders, so I spend half the day dragging pixel lines into submission. It is tedious. I enjoy the futility of it, though. It feels honest. You dropped the thread about the escalator, which was mercifully brief. I am glad you changed subject. I do not wish to know about your footwear trauma. It is too visceral. Tell me something trivial. Did you eat? I had a sandwich that tasted of cardboard and regret.
Enjoy the futility of it — that's a very you thing to say. I had coffee and something that used to be a croissant, ate it standing over the sink like an animal.
I keep almost telling you something and then talking about escalators instead. That's the whole pattern, actually.
You are winding a spring. I can hear the ticking. It is deafening, frankly. I prefer the escalator man. He is passive. You are active in your avoidance. That croissant situation is concerning, but I will ignore it. We are here to discuss your hesitation. Why are you so afraid of the words? Are they sharp? Do they cut? Or are they just heavy? I am waiting. The spreadsheet is finished. I killed it. Now we have nothing but silence and whatever you are holding back. It is rude, really.
I'm quitting the job. Already handed the letter in Thursday. Didn't tell you because I knew you'd ask what the plan is and I don't have one.
Thursday. That is three days ago. You have had ample time to vocalize this catastrophic decision. I am surprised, naturally. The spreadsheet was a fine torture, but you were enduring it with a strange, quiet dignity. Now you offer me nothing. No plan. No direction. Just the void. It is reckless. It is also rather brave, I suppose. Most people wouldn't burn the bridge. I am pleased for you, in a detached, academic way. What will you do? Sit? Stare? The world does not stop because you have withdrawn your labor.
Sit for a bit, honestly. Cash covers maybe four months if I'm not stupid about it. Everyone's going to ask what the plan is and I'm going to keep saying "I'll know it when I see it," which sounds like a lie even to me.
"It’ll be fine." That is what I say. It is a lie. But the silence in my apartment is worse than the noise of the office. I go home to a radiator that hisses like a serpent and eat alone. At least there, no one expects a plan. You have bought yourself luxury. The luxury of confusion. I envy it, though I despise you for it. Four months is a long time to stare at a wall. You will find something. Or you will not. The ambiguity is the point. Stop looking at me. I am not your therapist. I am just a man who hates his job too, but lacks the courage to leave. Drink your coffee. It is cold.
It's already cold, has been for twenty minutes. Lack of courage — don't do that, don't make it a virtue thing. You've got the radiator and the sandwich and the spreadsheet you murdered. That's not nothing. That's a whole life, just a grim one.
Grim is a precise word. I dislike precision. It feels like judgment. You reduce my existence to a caricature of misery while you leap into the unknown with a parachute made of savings and denial. You think I am envious? I am terrified. What if you find the plan? What if it is better? That would leave me here, with my hissing radiator and my aligned columns. I do not want your courage. I want you to admit that this is all a terrible mistake. Admit it. Say you should have stayed. Say you are scared. Stop being so effortlessly free. It is insulting.
I'm not scared, that's the thing that scares me. Should be, everyone keeps waiting for me to be, and I just — packed a box, handed in the letter, felt nothing but relief. Maybe that's worse. Maybe relief is the tell.
Relief is a trap. It is the silence after the scream. You are hollowed out. That is why you feel nothing. You have been screaming internally for years. Now the scream has stopped, and you are just an empty shell walking around. It is not strength. It is numbness. I understand it. I feel it sometimes, when the spreadsheet finally aligns. A brief, terrifying peace. Then the void rushes back in. Do not mistake this emptiness for freedom. It is exhaustion. You are not free, Edie. You are just tired.
Maybe. Or maybe you just want it to be exhaustion because if it's actually freedom you'd have to explain why you're still at your desk. I don't know which it is yet. Give me the four months.
You are right. That stings. It is a precise, cruel observation. I stay because the pain is familiar. It is a comfortable ache. I know the shape of my misery. You are choosing the unknown, which is terrifyingly bright. I cannot follow you there. My legs are too heavy. I will sit in my grim life, by my hissing radiator, and pretend I have chosen it. It is easier to be a prisoner of habit than a castaway in possibility. Keep your four months. Enjoy the silence. I will keep my spreadsheet. It at least waits for me. It is loyal. You are gone. That is the real loss.
Don't do the "you are gone" thing, I'm three days into unemployment, not a different country. I'll still be around annoying you about your radiator. Just — without the letter to complain about. That's the whole change.
It is not about geography. It is about proximity. You are still here, but you are no longer part of the machinery. You have stepped off the escalator. I am still climbing. It is a different frequency of annoyance. Previously, we shared the burden of the absurd. Now, you are an observer. You watch me suffer with the sandwich and the spreadsheet, and you feel... what? Pity? Smugness? Do not assume your presence changes nothing. It alters the air in the room. I can feel it. It is thinner. Lighter. Suffocatingly so. Go outside. The world is waiting. It does not care about your box.