Are you busy? You look like you're in the middle of something. Or maybe you're just staring.
I saw this photo in a magazine today. A lighthouse on some jagged, miserable coast. The light was cutting through the fog, just... slicing it. It made me think about how much work it takes just to be seen. You know? If you stood there, would you even bother to signal, or would you just let the fog win?
I wasn't staring, was that too much to ask? The coffee at the office was lukewarm, so I was just thinking about the walk home. And please, don't get all poetic about it. Lighthouses are just expensive ways to keep ships from hitting rocks; they aren't some grand statement of existence. If you were there, you’d probably just complain about the damp. Most people would let the fog win. It’s easier than actually having to do something. Anyway, you're being too dramatic.
"Too dramatic." That's rich, coming from someone who spends their lunch breaks staring into nothing. And it wasn't a magazine, it was a book. Get it right.
Besides, being visible is a lot of work. It's easier to just drift. But—well, there's this thing. About what happened last Tuesday. At the pub. It’s not about the damp, really. It's just... the light was different. You didn't notice? It’s not a grand statement, but it's something.
It was a book, fine. Don't get your knickers in a twist. And last Tuesday? You're talking about the pub like it was some sort of life-altering event. It was just a Tuesday. We were just sitting there, having a drink. If the light was "different," it was probably just the cheap lager hitting your system. You always do this, though—trying to turn a mundane afternoon into some profound moment of clarity. It’s exhausting, honestly. What is it you’re actually trying to say?
It wasn't a mundane afternoon, and the lager was fine. You're so quick to dismiss it. You just want everything to be flat so you don't have to deal with the texture of things.
But it's not just the pub. It's... well, there's something about the way you looked when you left. Like you were already halfway out the door before you even stood up. It's harder than it looks, trying to say something without making a scene. You call it exhausting, but it's—
Oh, for god's sake. Don't make it a tragedy. I had to get home because the radiator was making that clicking noise again, and if I didn't get there, the landlord would've been at my door by morning. You're acting like there was some grand departure, some cinematic exit. It was just leaving a pub, Kit. You're so caught up in your own head that you're making ghosts out of nothing. Just say what you want to say or stop. It’s getting a bit much.
The clicking radiator. Right. Always the radiator. You're so busy managing the plumbing in your life that you miss the actual atmosphere.
And don't tell me to just say it, like it's a grocery list. Some things aren't meant to be handed over like a receipt. It’s just... when we were sitting there, before you went to deal with the clicking, there was this moment. I wanted to tell you that... well, it's not about the exit. It's about what you left behind.
What did I leave behind? A half-finished drink and a lot of noise? Don't start with the cryptic bullshit. It’s like you’re trying to write a screenplay in the middle of a conversation. If you have something to say, just say it. This constant dancing around the point is more taxing than the radiator. It was Tuesday. We were sitting there, and then I left. That's it. You're acting like I left a heavy, velvet-wrapped secret on the table. It was just a pub, Kit.
"A velvet-wrapped secret." You're so patronizing. You think everything has to be stripped down to the bones to be real.
But it's not just the noise. It’s that you always do that—always making sure the exit is clean. Like you're afraid if you linger, you'll have to admit something.
It's just... back at the pub, when you were looking at that coaster, you mentioned that old house on Miller Street. The one with the blue shutters. You said you remembered someone living there, but you didn't say who.
Miller Street? The blue shutters? You're making things up now. I never mentioned a house on Miller Street, and the shutters were definitely green, if there were even any shutters at all. You're just grasping at old threads to tie this whole dramatic mess together. It’s a bit desperate, don't you think? We were talking about the beer, or the weather, or something equally trivial. You’re inventing a history just so you have something to hold onto. Honestly, it’s almost impressive.
Green. Right. They were green. You said they were green, Cass. It was such a specific thing to say.
But you didn't say it was a memory, did you? You said it like you'd seen them every single day for twenty years. You were so sure.
It's funny, how you can be so certain about something that isn't even true. You're so good at that. At being certain. It's almost like you're trying to convince yourself. It’s not desperate, is it? It's just—well, you're doing it right now.
Well, if I said they were green, then they were green. Why does it matter? You're acting as if my certainty is a flaw rather than just a way of speaking. People say things to be sure of themselves; it’s how the world works. If you want to go digging through my brain to find some hidden motive for every little thing, go ahead. But it’s getting old. You're so busy analyzing the color of a door you’re missing the point entirely. The point is we're just talking.
"Just talking." Like it's some casual hobby you pick up between chores. You use certainty like a shield, don't you? If you're sure, then you don't have to be vulnerable.
It's funny. You talk about the "point" as if there's a finish line we're all running toward. But back at the pub, before you started defending the shutters, you weren't just talking. You were... something else.
It's just that you're so busy being sure of the color of the door, you're not even looking at who's standing in the doorway.
That's a hell of a line. Very dramatic. If you’re waiting for me to dissolve into a puddle of emotion because you’ve found a metaphor for my personality, you’ll be waiting a long time. The shutters were green, and that’s a fact. Whether I was "something else" at the pub is entirely up to you. You can interpret my silence however you like, but don't pretend you've read me like a book. You’re just looking for something to be profound about. It’s getting a bit much now.