Are you busy? This hotel carpet is so thin. Every time someone walks past in the hall, it sounds like they're stepping directly on my head. It's that cheap, scratchy floral pattern. You know, the kind that smells like old cigarettes even when nobody's smoking. My stomach is doing that thing again. It's just because we haven't eaten. Or maybe... well. Anyway. Do you have much to do?
It's not that it's thin, it's just... it's too loud. Everything in this place is loud. My head is pounding, too. Probably because of that sandwich we grabbed at the station—the one with the too-vinegary pickles.
I've got nothing to do. Everything can wait. My boss can wait, the emails can wait. It’s not like anyone’s actually going to miss me for an hour. You’re acting weirdly energetic for someone who's starving. You always get all jittery when you're hungry, like you're trying to outrun the hunger. Is that why you're pacing? Like you're trying to get to the point before your stomach gives out? God, just sit down. The floor isn't going anywhere.
It’s just the acid from those pickles. My stomach is being dramatic. Besides, the pacing helps. If I sit, I'll just think too much, and thinking is harder when you're this empty. It’s not like... well, it’s not about the hunger. It’s just that the silence in this room feels heavy, like it's waiting for something to happen. Do you think they'll have something better at the diner?
The silence is just silent, Cass. Don't make it some big atmospheric thing. It's just the absence of noise.
The diner will probably have the same stuff. They always have the same stuff. It reminds me of that place in Bristol, that little greasy spoon near the docks where the waiter had a permanent squint. We sat there for three hours because we were too broke to leave, and the air felt exactly like this. You kept tapping your spoon against the glass. You were trying to say something about your sister, but you just kept... well, you just kept tapping.
Anyway, the pickles weren't the problem. You're just being difficult because you're restless. Let's just go before the kitchen closes and we're stuck with toast.
Bristol was different. I wasn't tapping because of my sister. I was just... the glass was uneven. You always remember the wrong things. My sister is fine, she’s fine. It’s not about her. It's more like... God, the pickles were definitely too much. Let's just go. If we stay here too long, we'll start talking in circles and then we'll never eat.
Maybe. But even if you were tapping because of the glass, you weren't talking about it. You were looking at the door like you wanted to bolt.
It’s fine, let’s just move. If we stay here, we'll just end up staring at that hideous floral pattern until it starts to look like something else. It’s almost a nice pattern, if you squint, but it's mostly just depressing.
You're so insistent on being "fine." It's exhausting. It's like you're trying to build a wall between us one sentence at a time. I can almost hear the bricks clicking into place. Don't get too caught up in it, though. If you're too busy defending your sister or the pickles, you'll miss the menu. Grab your coat. Let's just go.
A wall? That's a bit much. It’s not a wall, it’s just... layers. Like the cheap wallpaper in some of these old buildings. You make everything sound so monumental. It's just a sandwich, and it's just a conversation. Or a lack of one. If I'm building something, it's just to keep the cold out. Let's go. The menu shouldn't be a life-or-death situation, even if we're starving.
Everything you do is a bit monumental, isn't it? You can't just exist without it being a metaphor for something. If you're building layers, you're making it harder for anyone to even find you.
It's not the cold you're worried about. You've always been fine in the cold. You're just too preoccupied with the weight of things to just... let them be. You're making it a problem before it even happens. Like that time we got stuck at the terminal because you couldn't decide if you'd left your charger in the seat pocket. You weren't worried about the charger, you were worried about the fact that you couldn't remember the last three hours of your life.
Anyway, enough. The diner isn't going to move. Let's just get out of this room. It's starting to feel like the walls are closing in, or maybe that's just the hunger.
I remember the charger. It was in my bag the whole time. You always twist things to make them sound so much heavier than they are. It wasn't a crisis, it was just... a moment of being distracted. If you’re so sure about the layers, then why do you keep trying to peel them back? It’s not like there’s anything underneath but more layers. Let’s go before you find a metaphor in the doorframe.
Then why the long face? If it's all just layers of nothing, why look like you're carrying a heavy trunk everywhere you go? You act like there's some grand truth we're all missing, but you're the one holding the map upside down.
I'm not trying to peel anything. I'm just saying, it's hard to walk through a door when you're busy checking the hinges. You're so focused on the "what-ifs" that you're practically tripping over the "is."
It's just a diner. If we find another metaphor in the menu, we'll just order the cheapest thing and leave. Let's go. The hallway is waiting to judge our footsteps, and honestly, the silence in here is getting even louder. Grab your bag. You're dragging your feet like you're being pulled by an invisible rope.
I'm not dragging my feet. The floor is just uneven. It’s uneven in every building, isn't it? Why can't you just let things be what they are? The charger was a charger. The pickles were pickles. It isn't all a grand design. It's just... sometimes the weight is just there. Like a heavy coat you can't quite take off because it's too much work to find the buttons. Let's just go.
You and your coats. You always talk about the effort of something, even when you're standing perfectly still. It's like you're too tired to even exist, but you're too stubborn to actually sit down and rest.
I'm not trying to make it a grand design, Cass. I'm just saying that if you keep carrying that weight around, you're going to walk right into a wall. Or a doorframe. Or a person.
Anyway, fine. Let the pickles be pickles. Let the charger be a charger. If you want to live in a world where everything is just a plain, flat surface with no texture at all, then go ahead. But don't complain when you feel the breeze through the gaps.
Let's go. The elevator is probably going to creak like a dying animal, and you'll probably find a way to make that personal too.
It's not about being tired. It's just... sometimes everything feels like it's leaning one way, and you have to balance to stay upright. You call it stubbornness, but sometimes it's just holding on. The elevator won't be that bad. It’s just metal and cables. It doesn't have a soul to judge us. But if we don't move now, we'll just end up standing here, debating the physics of the floor.
"Holding on" is just another way of saying you're afraid to let go. You're so busy balancing that you're barely actually walking.
I remember when we went to that museum in the city—the one with those massive, towering statues in the atrium. You spent the whole time looking at the pedestals, checking if the floor was level, making sure you weren't lopsed. You were so worried about the tilt of the room that you didn't even look at the sculptures.
But fine. Let's go. If the elevator has a soul, it’s probably just as hungry and irritable as we are. It’ll probably just roll its eyes at us when we step inside. Watch your step, though. Even if it’s just metal and cables, it’s still a drop to the bottom if you lose that balance of yours.
The statues were magnificent. The pedestals were just... there. You focus so much on how I walk that you miss the actual scenery. It's not about being afraid to let go, it's just that sometimes you have to hold on to keep the whole thing from tipping. Besides, the floor there was perfect. It wasn't lopsed. Let's just get in the elevator. If it creaks, it's because it's old. Nothing more.
They weren't magnificent. They were intimidating. You were so busy checking the level of the floor that you barely looked up at the marble.
It’s just a heavy-handed way of saying you're scared of losing your footing. But if you need to grip the handrail like it's a lifeline, then go ahead. At least you'll have something to do with your hands besides fidgeting.
Let's just move. The elevator's waiting, and you're standing there like you're bracing for an earthquake. If it's old, it's old. It’s not a personal affront to your sense of balance. And don't tell me the statues were the point—you didn't even see the one with the wings. You were too busy watching the tourists trip over the rug. Step in. Before the doors close on us.
The one with the wings was... well, it was fine. It was just a sculpture. And it wasn't that I didn't see it, it's just that even a masterpiece doesn't matter if the ground is shifting. You think everything is so much more solid than it really is. It's easy to look at the wings when you're not worrying about the floor. Let's just go. I'm ready to eat.
If the ground was shifting, you would have noticed the vertigo, but you just looked like you were walking on eggshells. It’s a funny way to live, really. You're so busy anticipating the tilt that you're basically living in a permanent state of bracing.
But whatever. If you want to call a masterpiece 'fine' just because you were preoccupied with the foundation, that's your business. It’s a bit of a tragedy, but it's your tragedy.
Let’s go. If the diner is as empty as you want it to be, you can have all the floor-space you want to yourself. Just try not to look like you're preparing for a seismic event while we're waiting for the menu. It’s making the table look restless.
It’s not a tragedy to want to stay steady. It’s just practical. If you’re always looking up at the clouds, you’ll miss the step right in front of you. And it’s not like there's a seismic event happening. It’s just... well, everything is just a bit much right now. The empty tables won't care how I sit. Let's just get there. I need to sit in a chair that doesn't feel like it's floating.
You're so obsessed with the floor that you've forgotten how to actually move across it. It's not practical if you're too tense to enjoy the walk. You talk about the step in front of you, but you're so focused on it that you're practically walking in place.
And you're right, the empty tables won't care. They don't have opinions, and they don't wait for you to find your footing. They just sit there.
Let's just go. If you find a chair that's sturdy enough, maybe you'll finally stop looking like you're about to tip over. Just don't expect the diner to provide a perfect, level surface for your peace of mind. It's a diner, not a laboratory. It’s probably got one leg shorter than the others. We'll just wedge a folded napkin under it and call it even.
A napkin won't be enough. If the table is wobbly, it’ll just lean, and then everything will slide. It’s not about being tense; it's about knowing where the center of gravity is. You make it sound so easy, like stability is just a choice you make when you wake up. If we find a table with one short leg, we'll just pick a different one. Let's go before we start discussing the mechanics of silverware.
You're so busy calculating the physics of a dinner table that you’re going to forget to actually eat. It’s not a choice you make when you wake up, is it? It's just a constant, exhausting calculation. You're treating every chair like a potential catastrophe.
If we pick a different table every time we find a wobble, we'll be sitting in the parking lot by midnight. You'll be so busy looking for the perfect center of gravity that you won't even realize the food's gone cold.
Fine. Let's go. Let's go find a table with four perfectly even legs and a surface that doesn't even exist in the real world. We'll sit there in the perfect stillness, and you can finally relax. Or you'll just start worrying about the weight of the menu. Grab your bag, let's move.