God, I swear the air just got heavy. That petrichor hitting the asphalt? It’s nauseating. I drove past the depot today. The one on 4th. Van didn’t start. Engine was just… dead. Like the whole block was holding its breath. I waited ten minutes. Just sat there.
The spark plugs were probably fouled. Or the alternator belt, given how old that thing is. You know the mechanic on 5th charges double for Sundays, but he’s reliable. Unlike you, sitting there letting the battery die. I drove past the grocery store on Elm yesterday. Noticeable how the lights flicker in the aisle with the milk. Makes you wonder if the grid’s holding up.
Shut up. Just... stop. The mechanic on 5th is a liar. And the lights on Elm are fine. It’s just old wiring. I’m not sitting here worrying about belts or grids. I told Sarah I wouldn’t be there. She knows. She’s been expecting it for weeks. I just... I couldn’t face the drive home. Not today.
Sarah knows? That’s... new. I didn’t think she was the type to wait around for someone to drop the hammer. Maybe she’s relieved. You’ve been dragging your feet for months, Marc. The whole office noticed. Even the interns. I saw Jenkins looking at you last Tuesday, like you were a ghost. You’re making it easy for them to fire you. Honestly? Good riddance. The place was drowning in mediocrity anyway.
Jenkins is an idiot. He couldn’t find his own ass with a map. And I’m not fired. I’m... suspended? No, not suspended. I’m just gone. From the desk. Sarah isn’t relieved. She’s terrified. She keeps asking if I’m eating. I told her I wasn’t hungry. I’m not. The steak’s still in the fridge. Rotting. I haven’t opened it since Tuesday.
Rotting meat. That’s your big crisis? The steak. Not the job. Not Sarah’s terror. Just a piece of beef turning into science experiment. You’re letting it spoil because you can’t control the rest. I ate gas station sushi yesterday. Feel fine. You’re hiding in the fridge, Marc. Hiding from Jenkins, from Sarah, from the fact that you didn’t even try to fix the van. You just sat there. Waiting for the world to move on without you. It already has. I saw the depot crew working on the fence. They didn’t even look at your car.
You’re loud. It’s the coffee. Or the air. Whatever. Jenkins didn’t look because I’m not there. I didn’t say goodbye. I just… left the keys on the dash. Sarah’s right about the steak. It’s gross. I threw it out. Now the bin smells. That’s worse. It sticks to your clothes.
You threw it out. Good. That’s one less thing rotting. But the bin? You couldn’t just rinse it? You left it open, didn’t you? Letting the smell seep into the kitchen, into the hallway, into Sarah’s face when she walks by. You want her to know, don’t you? You want her to gag on your absence. It’s pathetic, Marc. Really. I left my coffee cup in the sink this morning. Stains already forming. I just soaked it. Didn’t make a drama out of it. You’re making a museum out of a trash can.
I didn’t leave it open. I just… forgot to close it tight. Again. It’s sticky. The residue. It gets under the nails. I scrubbed for twenty minutes. Bleach didn’t touch it. Smells like copper now. Or blood. Sarah laughed. Actually laughed. Said I was being dramatic. I didn’t tell her I was crying. She’d hate that more than the smell.
Sarah laughed. At you. For crying over bin residue. That’s the real rot, isn’t it? Not the meat. The fact that you’re so transparent she can laugh at your breakdown. I scrubbed a stain out of my shirt cuff last week. Red wine. Took hours. Didn’t ask for a audience. You’re performing, Marc. The crying, the scrubbing, the ‘copper’ smell. It’s all a act. She sees through it. That’s why she laughed. Because you’re weak. And she’s strong. Unlike you, sitting in the dark.
Stop it. I wasn’t crying. It was the bleach. Fumes. My eyes watered. I hate that you think I’m weak. I’m just tired. The lights in the office are too bright. Jenkins smells like cheap cologne and anxiety. I can’t breathe there. That’s all. I’m not performing. I’m just... gone.
Bleach fumes. Sure. That’s convenient. You watered up because the chemicals hit you, not because you broke. I’ve worked in that office. The lights are standard fluorescent, nothing special. Jenkins smells like coconut, not anxiety. He’s got a new daughter. Smells like baby powder and cheap designer cologne. You’re projecting. You say you’re gone, but you’re still here, arguing about smells. You’re not gone. You’re just hiding in the bathroom. I saw you there yesterday. Staring at the mirror. Like you were trying to remember your own face.
I wasn’t in the bathroom. I was on the roof. Smoke breaks. You’re imagining things. Jenkins doesn’t wear coconut. He’s allergic. I saw his son sneezing. Hard. The mirror in the bathroom is cracked. I didn’t look at it. I looked at the ceiling tiles. Water damage. Black spots. Spreading. Like mold. Or guilt.
Roof. Right. You’re the only one who gets the view. Jenkins isn’t allergic; his wife is. You’re mixing up the people, Marc. Always have. The mold is just humidity. The building’s old. Like you said. But you’re staring at it. Focusing on the black spots. I don’t see a roof. I see you lying. You weren’t smoking. You were just… waiting for the tiles to fall. They won’t. People ignore the ceiling. They look down. At their phones. At their shoes. At the floor. You’re the only one looking up. Waiting for the collapse. It’s not coming. I checked the reports. Structural integrity is fine. You’re just tired of holding your head up.