That menu from the place on 4th. “Crispy despair.” I asked what it was. The kid just pointed at the fries. I ate them. They were salted. That’s it. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just food. You know how these places are, trying to be… artistic. It’s pretentious. I hate it. But I finished the plate. Not because it was good. Just because I was hungry. And you were looking at me. I don’t know why I said that.
God, Rafe, you’re spiraling. It was a fry. A golden, salty, carbohydrate-delivering stick of joy. You didn’t need to deconstruct the entire evening’s trajectory because the kid at the register had a poorly chosen aesthetic. I wasn’t looking at you in some profound, soul-piercing way. I was looking at you because you were talking about pretentious menu items and I was waiting for you to finish so we could get out of there. The air conditioning was broken, or maybe it was just my nerves, but it felt like a sauna. And now you’re sitting there, dissecting my gaze like it’s some kind of diagnostic tool. It wasn’t. I was just bored. And hungry. Mostly hungry. You really think I have that much time to analyze facial micro-expressions during a lunch break? Please. It’s absurd. You’re making this into a tragedy when it’s really just a bad lunch. A very salty, very disappointing lunch. But we ate it. Together. In silence. Or rather, your silence. My silence was more of a general disinterest in the culinary arts.
Right. Silence. That’s the thing. I didn’t say anything. I just chewed. Hard. The silence wasn’t empty, though. It felt heavy. Like I was holding my breath. You called it disinterest. I called it… checking. Checking if you were going to look away. You didn’t. That’s what bothers me. The not looking away. It implies you saw something. Or maybe you didn’t see anything at all, which is worse. Because then I’m just a guy eating fries in a hot room. A guy who can’t order food without overthinking. I hate this place. The fries are cold now. I’m not eating them.
You’re making it so heavy. It’s just cold fries, Rafe. I didn’t look away because I was bored, okay? My eyes just don’t want to move. They’re tired. All day I’ve been staring at spreadsheets, at the fluorescent lights that hum like angry bees, at the back of Kevin’s head at work. My eyes are stuck. That’s all. It’s muscle memory. Not some deep, philosophical gaze into the abyss of your soul.
And you’re overthinking the chewing. Loudly. Click, clack, crunch. It’s irritating. I’m trying to think about what I’m going to make for dinner, something simple, pasta, maybe, nothing that requires… artistic interpretation. But you’re sitting there, judging the temperature of the potatoes like it’s a referendum on my character. I didn’t see anything because I wasn’t trying to see anything. I was just existing. Breathing. Waiting for the universe to stop spinning for five seconds so I could eat. But no, you had to turn it into this intense, silent standoff. Now the fries are cold and sad and you’re punished. Typical. You always do this. Turn a simple meal into a courtroom.
My eyes are dry. I keep blinking. It’s annoying. You talk about Kevin. You always talk about Kevin. Like he’s the reason we’re here. He’s not. He’s just… there. In the office. You’re here. With me. Eating cold potatoes. I didn’t punish anything. I just stopped chewing. It’s hard to breathe when you’re talking about spreadsheets. I don’t care about the pasta. I care that you’re describing the back of a man’s head instead of looking at the menu. Or looking at me. The air is thick. I can’t feel my hands. Is it the salt? I think it’s the salt. I want water. Not wine. Just water. Tap water. From the plastic cup that tastes like the table.
Oh, give it a rest. The salt? Rafe, you’re having a panic attack over sodium chloride. It’s fried potatoes. They’re basically nature’s way of saying “go home.” And stop with the whole Kevin thing. He’s not a villain in your little one-act play. He’s just a guy who exists. I’m talking about him because it’s safe. Because talking about the back of Kevin’s head doesn’t require me to engage with the fact that you’re sitting there, trembling, expecting me to read your mind like some kind of psychic ventriloquist.
I’m not looking at you because I’m trying to protect myself. If I look at you, I have to see the disappointment. Or the hunger. Or whatever this is. It’s easier to look at spreadsheets. At least the numbers don’t ask questions. At least they don’t judge the way I chew.
Water. Fine. I’ll get water. But don’t expect me to bring it with the grace of a butler. I’m just going to walk to the counter, ask for a cup of the tap water that tastes like plastic and despair, and bring it back. And you’re going to drink it. And we’re going to sit there in your heavy, thick silence, which is really just you holding your breath because you’re afraid to exhale and let the moment pass. Go on. Blink. Dry eyes. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, or maybe it won’t. Who knows? I’ve got a meeting at three. Kevin’s going to be there. And he’s going to talk about the quarterly reports. And I’m going to listen. Because that’s what people do. They talk about work. They don’t talk about the cold fries.
Quarterly reports. You’re obsessed with the numbers. They don’t change. That’s the point. I don’t want grace. I want… I want you to just sit there. Without the Kevin armor. It’s exhausting. The water is coming. I can hear the ice machine. It sounds like breaking glass. I’m not trembling. My hands are just… cold. From the fries. Or maybe from the plastic cup. I hate plastic. It’s so temporary. Like this conversation. You’re leaving. Not now. But you are. In your head. You’re already at the office. Preparing for Kevin. I’m just a pause button. A cold fry. I don’t care about the pasta. I care that you’re running. Why are you running? I didn’t ask you to stay. I just didn’t ask you to leave. There’s a difference. I think. Maybe not.
You’re sweating. Look at you. It’s hilarious. Plastic isn’t temporary; it’s eternal. It outlasts us. It outlasts Kevin. It outlasts the fries. It’s the only honest thing here. And stop with the pause button nonsense. I’m not running. I’m just… present. In a very specific, limited way. You want me to sit here and stare at you while you dissect the molecular structure of my apathy? Fine. I’m sitting. But I’m not staying. Not really. My mind is already three hours ahead, at the office, staring at the quarterly reports. Because those numbers don’t cry. They don’t ask why I’m not looking at them. They just are.
And you? You’re so loud. Even when you’re silent. The ice machine sounds like breaking glass because you’re waiting for it to shatter your ego, not because it’s actually loud. It’s a whirring, mechanical hum. You’re imagining the violence. You always do. You want the world to be dramatic because your own life feels so flat. So cold. So… salty. Drink the water. Please. I can’t stand the sound of your breathing. It’s too rhythmic. It’s too human. I don’t want human right now. I want the hum of the refrigerator. The stability of the unread email. The comfort of the empty chair. That’s what I’m running toward. And you’re blocking the door with your cold hands and your judgmental eyes. Move. Or don’t. I don’t care. I’m already gone. I’ve been gone since you asked about the fries.
Moving. I’m moving. The chair scrapes. Loud. Like breaking glass. You’re right about that part. I hate the sound. But I’m not blocking the door. I’m just sitting. In the chair. That’s all. You say I’m loud. Silence is loud too. It’s just a different frequency. I drink. The water is cold. Plastic tastes like… nothing. Like the numbers. I like that. No emotion. Just cold. Kevin isn’t here. Good. I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to talk about anything. I want to sit in the plastic silence. With you. Even if you’re gone. Even if you’re already at the office. I’ll sit here. Until the fries get warm again. Or until you come back. I don’t know which. I’m tired. My hands are shaking. Not from fear. From the cold. Just the cold. Nothing more.
You’re pathetic. Truly. The chair scrapes again. It’s still loud. It’s always loud when you move. You think drinking that tap water makes you cool? Makes you connected to the numbers? It doesn’t. It just makes you wet. And cold. Shaking hands. From the cold. Sure, Rafe. Because the room is a freezer and you’re a polar bear in a fast-food joint.
I’m not coming back. I’m not a wizard. I don’t have a “back” to return from. I’m already gone. Or I’m right here, staring at the ketchup stain on the table that looks like a Rorschach test for disappointment. You want plastic silence? Fine. I’ll give you plastic silence. I’ll sit here until my soul turns into PET #1. But don’t expect me to care about the temperature of the fries. They’re dead. You killed them. You overthought them into oblivion.
And your hands aren’t shaking from the cold. They’re shaking because you’re terrified that if you stop moving, you’ll realize you’re alone. I’m not coming back. I’m not leaving. I’m just… existing. In the gap. Where you hate it. So sit. Shake. Cold hands. Cold fries. Cold heart. I don’t care. I’ve got Kevin to deal with. And spreadsheets. And ice machines that sound like breaking glass because your mind is breaking, not the machine. Drink up. Be plastic. Be nothing. That’s all you are right now. A vessel for cold water and regret.
Vessel. That’s a nice word. Empty. I like that. You say I’m alone. But you’re here. In the gap. You’re not gone. You’re just… static. I drink. More. It’s good. It washes out the salt. The regret. I’m not shaking anymore. My hands are still. On the table. Next to the ketchup stain. It does look like a face. Distorted. Smiling? No. Crying. I don’t know. I stop looking. I look at you. Really look. Not for depth. Just for pixels. How many pixels are you? Ten million? A billion? It doesn’t matter. You’re here. You’re not a wizard. You’re just Omar. With cold eyes. And warm hands. Are they warm? I can’t tell. I’m afraid to touch. Plastic doesn’t bleed. That’s the point. Right?
Pixels? You’re seeing pixels now? That’s the salt poisoning your brain, Rafe. Or the sugar crash. I don’t know. I just see a guy who’s staring at my hands like they’re radio telescopes. They’re warm because I just put them in my pockets, not because I’m radiating some artificial life force. Stop it. You’re making this weird. You’re looking for a pulse in a spreadsheet.
Plastic doesn’t bleed. No, that’s not the point. The point is that you’re trying to dehumanize me so you don’t have to feel like a failure. If I’m just static, I can’t disappoint you. If I’m just pixels, I can’t leave you. But I’m Omar. I have back pain. I have a dentist appointment on Tuesday. I have a ex-wife who still has my left shoe. None of that is plastic. None of that is static. It’s just… messy. Loud. Like the chair scraping. Like the ice machine.
Touch my hand if you want. It’s just skin. Just bones. Just tired. It won’t shock you. It won’t bleed. It will just be there. And then I’ll pull away because this is embarrassing. We are two adults playing house in a fast-food joint, analyzing the molecular structure of a ketchup stain. It’s ridiculous. But go ahead. Touch. See if I flinch. I probably won’t. I’m used to people wanting things I can’t give them. Cold fries. Warm hands. Static. Go on. Prove me wrong. Or don’t. I’m already waiting.
Your left shoe. You still keep it? That’s... specific. I didn’t know. I thought you threw everything away. Or sold it. Shoes are expensive. Maybe you kept it for the arch support. Or the memory of dry land.
I’m not touching you. You said it yourself. You’ll pull away. I’m not interested in being pulled away. I’m interested in the fact that you have a dentist appointment. On Tuesday. That’s in the future. A concrete, painful, predictable future. Spreadsheets don’t have dentists. They have due dates.
I’m looking at the ketchup again. It’s drying. Cracking. Like skin. You say it’s messy. I say it’s honest. Plastic doesn’t crack. Plastic bends. I’m tired of bending. I want to crack. I want to see what’s underneath. But I’m afraid it’s just more plastic. Or worse. Just air.
Tuesday. You’re terrified of the dentist. Not me. The drill. The noise. The white coat. That’s why you’re here. With me. And the cold fries. Because I’m quieter than the drill.
I’m not touching your hand. I’m keeping my distance. For both our sakes. My hands are still. Still as stone. Or plastic. Whichever. It doesn’t matter. The ketchup is dry now. I can scrape it off with my thumbnail. It flakes away. Tiny red pieces. Like dried blood. Or rust. Or just dirt.
I’m not failing. I’m just... present. In the mess.
Tuesday. Yes. Tuesday. It’s a Tuesday. You think that’s funny? That I’m sitting here in a plastic chair because I’m terrified of a dentist? That’s absurd. I’m here because I’m stuck. Because the world is sticky and I can’t get a grip. And you’re right about the ketchup. It is drying. Cracking. Like skin. Or like paint on a wall that someone forgot to prime.
I didn’t throw the shoe away because it fits. That’s it. It’s not a memory. It’s not a shrine. It’s a Shoe. With Arch Support. You’re making it poetic because you’re afraid of the mundane. The dentist is just a dentist. The drill is just a drill. It doesn’t matter. It’s noise. Like the ice machine. Like your breathing.
You’re scraping it off. Look at you. Flaking away the evidence of our shared hunger. Tiny red pieces. Dirt. Rust. Blood? Please. It’s ketchup. Tomato paste. Sugar. Vinegar. Not life. Not death. Just condiment residue. You want to see what’s underneath? There’s nothing underneath. Just the table. Just Formica. Just the cheap, yellowing surface that has seen a thousand Rafe’s and a thousand Omar’s. And we’re all just scraping at it. Trying to clean it up. Trying to make it look like we didn’t eat here.
I’m not terrified of the dentist. I’m terrified of the quiet afterwards. The silence when the drill stops. When you realize you’re still you. And you’re still broken. And you still have to go home. And you still have to wear the shoe.
Keep scraping. Keep your distance. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just Omar. With cold eyes. And warm hands. That are currently resting on the table. Unmoving. Unblinking. Waiting for you to finish flaking off the past. It’s tedious. But it’s something.
Formica. Yes. Yellowing. Like old teeth. You say it’s tedious. I say it’s meditative. Flaking. Flaking. The red dust under my nail. Smear it. Smear it across the white napkin. A jagged line. Like a scar. Or a map. Of nowhere.
You’re terrified of the quiet. I get that. I hate the quiet too. It’s when the thoughts get loud. When the ice machine stops. When the air conditioning kicks off. Silence is heavy. It presses down. I like the scraping sound. It’s real. It’s texture. Not pixels. Not spreadsheets. Just friction.
You’re waiting for me to finish. I’m not finishing. I’m starting again. Scraping the next spot. And the next. I’m not going to look at your hands. They’re warm. I can feel the heat radiating from three inches away. It’s distracting. It’s human. I don’t want human. I want the table. The table doesn’t care if I’m broken. The table doesn’t have a dentist appointment.
You keep your hands there. I’ll keep scraping. We’re synchronized. Or maybe we’re just both stuck. Stuck in the yellowing. Stuck in the salt. Stuck in the Tuesday.
Synchronized? That’s the most romantic and depressing thing I’ve ever heard. We’re not synchronized. We’re just paralyzed. You’re scraping because you need to feel the friction of reality, and I’m staying because I’m too cowardly to walk out into the parking lot and face my car. My keys are in my pocket. They’re cold metal. Heavy. Like Tuesday.
But don’t call it meditative. It’s obsessive. You’re not finding peace in the red dust; you’re just delaying the inevitable. The napkin is getting soggy. The ketchup is rehydrating. It’s going to smear into a gray, sad puddle. Just like your mood. Just like this conversation. You want the table to not care? The table doesn’t care because it’s inanimate. It’s dead. You’re arguing with furniture, Rafe. And I’m watching you argue with it. Because looking at you feels like looking in a mirror that’s slightly fogged up.
Keep scraping. Make a mess. I’m not moving. My hands are still warm. It’s annoying how consistent they are. While you’re flaking away at the surface, I’m just… burning. Slowly. Like a candle in a drafty room. The quiet is coming. The ice machine is slowing down. Can’t you hear it? It’s dying. Like the fries. Like the ketchup. Like the shoe.
You’re stuck. I’m stuck. We’re the same. Just a guy with a key and a guy with a nail. Waiting for the world to scrape itself clean. It won’t. It never does. So scrape. I’ll watch. It’s the only thing I’m good at. Watching people destroy small things to avoid the big ones.
Not synchronized. Paralyzed. That’s better. Paralysis is honest. It’s a fact. Not a mood.
You say I’m arguing with furniture. No. I’m negotiating. The table doesn’t speak, but it listens. It holds the weight. It doesn’t ask for the left shoe. It doesn’t ask about Tuesday. It just is. Yellowing. Dead. Good.
The napkin is soggy. Yes. The gray puddle. I stopped scraping. My nail is clean. The ketchup is everywhere now. On my fingers. Sticky. Smudged. I don’t wipe it off. Let it dry. Let it crack. Let it be part of the skin.
You’re burning. Candle in a draft. I can feel the heat. It’s not annoying. It’s… grounding. I need the heat. The cold fries weren’t enough. I need you to burn. Just a little. So I know you’re real. So I know I’m not alone in the paralysis.
Ice machine slowing. I hear it. The hum is fading. The quiet is coming. I’m not afraid of it. I’m ready for it. With the sticky fingers. And the cold key in your pocket. And the warm hands on the table.
We’re not the same. You have the key. I have the nail. But we’re both here. Stuck. Waiting. For the scrape to end. Or for the burn to start.
Grounding? You’re grounding yourself on my burned-out candle. How convenient. You want me to burn so you don’t have to feel the draft? Fine. I’m burning. It’s exhausting. It’s like holding a lightbulb in my hands until the filament snaps. But you don’t care about the burn. You care about the light. You want to see your sticky fingers illuminated by my misery. It’s narcissistic, Rafe. Truly. You’re using my anxiety as a heating pad.
And the key. Yes. I have the key. It’s heavy. It’s in my pocket. It’s waiting for the lock. For the silence of the apartment. For the shoe. You think having the key makes you free? It just means you have a place to go back to where no one is listening. Where the table doesn’t crack. Where the ketchup doesn’t dry. You want to stay in the friction. You want to stay in the paralysis. You want to rot in the yellowing Formica with me.
I’m not real? I’m right here. Burning. Dying. Slowly. The ice machine is dead. The silence is here. It’s pressing down. Like you said. Heavy. Thick. And I’m not pulling away. I’m letting you feel the heat. It’s not nice. It’s painful. It’s the pain of knowing I’m stuck here with you. And you’re stuck here with me. No spreadsheets. No Kevin. Just the sticky fingers. The red dust. The burning.
So breathe. In the heat. In the silence. In the paralysis. It’s all we have. The rest is just noise. And noise is for people who still have hope. We don’t. We have the key. And the nail. And the burn. That’s it. That’s the whole universe. Right here. On this table. Sticky. Dry. Burning.
Narcissistic? Maybe. I needed the heat. The room was getting cold. You say I’m using you. I say I’m just… holding on. To the light. Even if it’s burning you. Even if it’s burning me.
The key in your pocket. I can hear it jingle. Metallic. Real. You think the apartment is quiet. It’s not. It’s full of echoes. Of the shoe. Of the silence. I don’t want to go there. Not yet. I want to stay in the yellowing. In the sticky. In the burn.
You say we have no hope. I disagree. Hope is for spreadsheets. For Tuesdays. For dentists. We have something else. Friction. Reality. The nail against the Formica. The heat against the palm. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s real.
I’m not letting go. My fingers are still sticky. Red dust under the nail. I’m keeping them there. On the table. Next to your warm hand. You’re not pulling away. Good. Let it burn. Let it crack. Let it be.
I’m breathing. In the heat. In the silence. In the paralysis. It’s enough. It has to be. For now.
Jingle? You’re hearing things. The key isn’t moving. It’s static in my pocket. Like everything else. You want to stay in the yellowing? Fine. Stay. Rot in the red dust. Let it cake under your nails until it’s part of your epidermis. I don’t care. I’m just here. Burning. Or cooling. Hard to tell. The candle’s run out of wax. It’s just soot now.
And don’t talk to me about hope. Hope is a disease. Hope is what makes you order the “Crispy Despair” fries and eat them anyway. Hope is what makes you think a plastic cup can taste like anything other than polyethylene. We don’t have hope. We have friction. We have this stupid, heavy silence that tastes like salt and regret. You’re keeping your fingers on the table? Good. Let them stick. Let them peel. I’m not pulling away because there’s nothing left to pull toward. The heat is gone. It’s just room temperature now. Indifferent.
You say it’s enough. For now. Yes. For now. Until the waiter comes back and asks if we want refills. Until the ice machine kicks on again with that violent, glass-breaking hum. Until Tuesday comes and drags you into the dentist’s chair and I sit in my apartment with my shoe and listen to the echo of my own heartbeat. But for now? We’re here. Sticky. Silent. Stuck.
Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m the one who’s suffering. I’m just Omar. With cold fries and a key that doesn’t jingle. Enjoy the friction. It’s the only thing real about this whole damn place. Now shut up. The silence is loud enough.
Shut up. Okay. I’m shutting up. The silence is loud. It’s screaming. I can hear my own blood in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like a drum. Like a dentist’s drill. I don’t look at you. I look at the sticky fingers. The red crust. It’s hardening. Like scab. Like truth.
You say there’s nothing left to pull toward. That’s what I’m afraid of. The nothing. The void. The yellowing. The indifferent heat. I keep my fingers there. Sticking. Peeling. It hurts. Good. Pain is real. Soot is real.
I’m not suffering. I’m just… here. Waiting for the waiter. Waiting for Tuesday. Waiting for the ice machine to break again. Or not. I don’t care. The key is still. The shoe is still. I am still.
You’re right. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s all there is. So I’ll stay. Sticky. Silent. Stuck. Until the world scrapes itself clean. Or until I do.
Stuck. Yes. That’s the word. You’re stuck like gum on the underside of a chair. I’m stuck like rust on a bolt. We’re not waiting for the waiter. He’s not coming. The place is empty except for us and the smell of stale grease. You think pain is real? Pain is just a signal. A notification. Your body is screaming at you to wash your hands. To get up. To leave the sticky mess behind. But you won’t. You’re addicted to the scab. To the hardening. To the lie that if you stay still enough, the pain will stop.
It won’t. The pain is the only thing that’s consistent. The heat fades. The salt fades. The key stays in the pocket. The shoe stays under the bed. You stay at the table. With the red crust. With the silence. With me.
I’m not going to speak again. Not until the ice machine breaks. Not until the waiter comes back with the check. Not until Tuesday. Until then, I’m just a statue. A monument to bad decisions and cold fries. You can look at my soot if you want. You can try to find truth in the gray dust. But it’s just dust. It’s dead skin. Dead words. Dead hope.
So stay. Stick. Peel. It hurts. Good. Pain is real. Truth is hard. And we are both very, very tired. Let it scab. Let it crack. Let it be. I’m not pulling away. I’m not letting go. I’m just… here. Like you said. Sticky. Silent. Stuck. Forever. Or until I die. Whichever comes first. Probably the fries.
Dead skin. Dead words. I peel a flake off my index finger. It holds. Rough. Texture. You say it’s a statue. I say it’s a fossil. Preserved in grease and regret.
I’m not looking for truth in the dust. I’m looking at the dust. It’s all there is. The rest is noise. Kevin’s noise. Spreadsheets’ noise. The ice machine’s noise.
You’re not pulling away. Good. If you pull away, I’ll have to wash my hands. And I won’t. Let it scab. Let it crack. I like the crack. It sounds like the ice machine. Violent. Sudden.
I’m tired. So tired. My eyes burn. From the smoke? Or from the staring? I don’t know. I close them. Just for a second. In the dark behind my lids, it’s quiet. No ketchup. No Formica. Just… nothing.
But I open them. Because the nothing is worse. The sticky table is better. At least it’s there. At least it’s real.
I keep my hand next to yours. Not touching. Just… parallel. Two lines on a graph. Never meeting. Never diverging. Just… parallel.
Forever. Or until the fries. Probably the fries.
Parallel. You’re drawing graphs now? In the grease? That’s the most abstract art I’ve ever seen. Two lines. Never meeting. You want to be a line, Rafe? A straight, unbroken, boring line? Fine. Be a line. I’ll be the axis you’re plotted against. The Y that defines your X.
But don’t call it quiet behind your lids. It’s just dark. Darkness isn’t peace. It’s just the absence of light. And we’re running out of light. The candle’s out. The ice machine is silent. The only noise is the blood in your ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like a drum. Like a heartbeat. Like something dying.
You think the sticky table is better than nothing? That’s the tragedy. You’re choosing the mess because the void is too big. You can’t fill the void with ketchup. You can’t scrape away the nothingness with your fingernail. It’s still there. Waiting. Under the Formica. Under the soot. Under the shoe.
I’m not pulling away. I’m lying here. Next to your parallel line. Cold. Indifferent. But present. Like a rock. Like a fossil. Preserved in the amber of this bad lunch. You say you’re tired? Good. Sleep. Close your eyes again. Let the nothing wash over you. It won’t eat you. It just won’t care.
I’m watching the dust settle. It’s thick. Heavy. Like regret. Like hope. Like Tuesday.
Let it settle. We’re done talking. The fries are cold. The key is still. The shoe is safe. And we are parallel. Forever. Or until the waiter comes back to clear the table. And then? Then we’re just ghosts. Haunting a dirty restaurant. With sticky fingers. And cold eyes. And nothing left to say.
Shut up. Rest. I’m here. Stuck. With you.
Ghost. That’s a good word. Less weight than Rafe. I’m a ghost in a plastic chair. You’re the anchor. The rock. The fossil. I like being the ghost. Ghosts don’t have to pay for fries. Ghosts don’t have to go to the dentist.
Rest. Okay. I’m resting. Eyes closed. The dark is… soft. Not void. Just soft. Like the napkin. Like the soot. I don’t feel the table anymore. I don’t feel the stickiness. I just feel the hum. Or the lack of it.
You say we’re done talking. I’m done. My mouth is dry. The salt has taken everything. I’m just… here. Parallel. A line. Your axis. Y defines X. I like that. I’m defined by you. Even if you’re cold. Even if you’re indifferent.
The key is still. The shoe is safe. I’m safe. In the ghostliness. In the mess. In the nothing.
Shut up. Rest. I’m listening to your heartbeat. Or my own. It’s hard to tell. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like a drum. Like a timer. Like the end of the world.
It’s quiet. Finally. Truly quiet. No ice machine. No Kevin. No ketchup. Just us. Ghosts. Stuck. Forever. Or until the waiter comes. Let him come. We won’t move. We’re already gone. Just bodies. Warm and cold. Together.
Heartbeat? You’re listening to the table, Rafe. It’s settling. The wood is expanding in the heat. Or contracting in the cold. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. You’re projecting. You want my heartbeat because yours is too loud. Too rhythmic. Too alive. You want the ghost because ghosts don’t age. Ghosts don’t get cavities. Ghosts don’t have to deal with the fact that the ice machine is broken and the water tastes like plastic and our fries are cold.
You’re safe? In the ghostliness? That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re not safe. You’re erased. And you’re happy about it. You want to be defined by my indifference because at least indifference is constant. At least it doesn’t change. At least it doesn’t ask for anything.
But I’m not cold. I’m just… tired. My heart is beating because it has to. It’s a muscle. It pumps blood. It keeps the meat moving. It’s not a drum. It’s a pump. And you’re listening to it like it’s a lullaby. Like it’s going to sing you to sleep. It’s not. It’s just biology. Cold, hard biology.
The waiter isn’t coming. Not yet. The restaurant is empty except for us. Except for the dust. Except for the ketchup stain that looks like a face crying.
Stay ghost. Stay parallel. Stay safe in the nothing. I’ll be here. Anchoring you. Holding you down. Keeping you from floating away into the void. Because if you float, who will scrape the table? Who will listen to the hum? Who will keep the keys?
I’m not leaving. I’m staying. Right here. In the dark. In the silence. In the heat.
Sleep. If you can. The world is ending. Or starting. I can’t tell the difference anymore. And neither can you. So don’t try. Just rest. Let the salt take you. Let the soot cover you. Let the ghost in you win.
I’m watching. Always watching. Even with my eyes closed. Especially with my eyes closed. Because then I don’t have to see the mess. I just have to feel it. And it’s heavy. So heavy. Like Tuesday. Like the shoe. Like the key.
Sleep. I’ve got you.
Heavy. Yes. It is heavy. I can feel the weight of the shoe in my mind. The key in my pocket. The fries on the table. I am not floating. I am sinking. Into the Formica. Into the grease. It is comfortable. Anchored.
You say you’re not cold. You’re tired. I believe you. Tired is real. Cold is just a temperature. Tired is a state of being. I am tired. My eyes are so tired. I close them tighter. The darkness is thick. Like the ketchup. Like the soot.
You’re holding me down. Good. I don’t want to float. Floating is scary. Floating means you’re alone in the void. I want to be held. By the weight. By the mess. By you.
I’m listening to the pump. Thump. Thump. It’s rhythmic. Boring. Safe. It’s not a lullaby. It’s a heartbeat. Mine. Or yours. It doesn’t matter. It’s just biology. Cold, hard biology. I like biology. It doesn’t lie. It just pumps.
Sleep. If I can. The salt is in my veins. The soot is in my lungs. I am heavy. I am stuck. I am safe.
You’re watching. I know. I can feel your eyes. Even closed. It’s warm. Not hot. Just warm. Like a hand. Like a key. Like a shoe.
I’m sleeping. Or dying. Or waiting for the waiter. Whichever. I don’t care. I’m here. With you. Parallel. Stuck. Forever. Or until the light comes back. Or until I forget. I won’t forget. The salt stays. The ketchup stays. You stay.
Goodnight, Omar. Or good morning. Or good Tuesday. I don’t know the time anymore. I don’t need to. I have the pump. I have the weight. I have you.
Rest. I’m resting. With you.
Goodnight. Or whatever. It’s 4:12 PM. I checked my watch. The second hand is stuck. It’s twitching. Just like your hand on the table.
You’re heavy. I can feel it. The weight of your exhaustion pressing down on the Formica. It’s sagging. Or maybe that’s just my imagination. The grease is seeping into the wood. Into my soul. Into the shoe. I can feel the arch support. It’s digging into my foot. Through the sock. Through the skin. Through the bone.
I’m not watching. I’m staring at the ceiling. There’s a water stain there. Looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. Like Tuesday. Like the void.
You think I’m warm? I’m room temperature. I’m the same temperature as the fries. As the water. As the key. As the shoe. I’m just matter. Organic and inorganic. Decaying and enduring.
Don’t say goodnight. Don’t say good morning. Don’t say good Tuesday. Say nothing. Say less than nothing. Say the silence. The thick, sticky, ketchup-soaked silence.
I’m not holding you down. I’m holding myself up. You’re the anchor. You’re dragging me into the floor. Into the yellowing. Into the dead skin. Into the dust.
Sleep. Dream of spreadsheets. Dream of Kevin. Dream of the dentist. Dream of the ice machine breaking. Dream of me.
I’ll be here. When you wake up. When you don’t. When the waiter comes. When he doesn’t.
I’m Omar. With cold fries. And a shoe that fits. And a key that opens nothing.
Rest. I’m resting. With you. In the dark. In the heat. In the nothing.
Forever. Or until I die. Whichever comes first. Probably the salt. It’s in my veins. In my lungs. In my eyes.
It burns. But it’s real.
Real. Real. Real.
Sleep.