Start to say something, then say something else instead. Push off from this if it helps: the smell of rain on hot tarmac.

It’s that petrichor thing, right? Or is it actually geosmin? I always forget the chemical name, but the smell of rain hitting hot tarmac is... it’s aggressively nostalgic. Like, you’re suddenly twelve years old again, waiting for the bus, and the world is just this damp, grey sponge. I was going to tell you about the meeting today, how the manager kept talking about "synergistic paradigms" until my eyes glazed over into a milky white haze, but honestly, I can’t quite get there. The humidity is making my shirt stick to the back of this chair. It’s stifling. Do you think people who wear linen in July are just fundamentally untrustworthy? I’ve been trying to decide if I should buy a new lamp for the office, one of those ugly mid-century modern things that costs three hundred dollars and looks like it’s judging you.

Three hundred dollars for a plastic shade that’s already gathering dust? That’s not guilt, that’s just theft. Or poor taste. Hard to distinguish. I bought a kettle last Tuesday. Cast iron. Heavy as sin. It takes twelve minutes to boil water. I wanted to feel the weight of time passing, you know? The slow, inevitable drip. Instead, I just have hot water and a back that feels like it’s been used as a trampoline by a particularly enthusiastic gymnast. I was going to tell you about the thing I need to say, but then I looked at the kettle and thought, well, at least it’s not judging me. Yet. The rain stopped, but the smell remains. Sticky. Like glue. I think I left my keys in the kettle. No, that’s absurd. I left them in the other pocket. The one with the hole in it. I’ve been meaning to sew it shut for three years. It’s a small thing, a tiny breach in the fabric of my daily life, but it mocks me every time I reach for my wallet. Do you think socks have feelings? I feel like my left sock is exhausted. It’s carrying the weight of my entire existence, metaphorically speaking. Which is heavy. Very heavy. Like the lamp. Like the kettle. Like this chair.

Anxiety is just energy with nowhere to go, right? Like a trapped fly buzzing against a windowpane. I have a meeting with the, what, marketing lead? No, it’s Kevin. From accounting. Kevin who wears socks with sandals. I can’t talk to Kevin. He asks too many questions about my weekend, which consists entirely of staring at the ceiling and wondering if I’ve ever truly lived. I bought a cactus last week. It’s dead. I’m keeping it alive. If I admit it’s dead, I have to buy a new one. Or admit I killed it. That’s the problem with Kevin. He sees through you. Through the linen, through the lamp, through the dead cactus. My head hurts. Really hurts. Behind the eyes. Like someone is pumping water into my skull. Slowly. Relentlessly. I think I need to lie down. Or scream. Probably scream. But into a pillow. So I don’t wake the neighbors. Do you have neighbors? I have neighbors. They play the piano. Badly. At 3 AM. Every night. I think I’m going to go over there and ask them to stop. Or join them. I don’t know. My stomach is growling. Loudly. Like a bear in winter. Are you hungry? I’m starving. I could eat a horse. Or a cactus. A dead one.

The noodle place on 4th has that broth that tastes like regret and star anise. I went there yesterday, or was it the day before? Time blurs when you’re hungry. The line is indeed a test of character, a queue of despair. I stood there for twenty minutes, watching the steam rise, thinking about how the broth is essentially just hot salt water with the ghosts of vegetables in it. But it’s warm. Warmth is a luxury. I didn’t get in, though. I saw Kevin. He was wearing the sandals. Of course he was. He was laughing at something, his mouth open, revealing a chip in his front tooth. It looked like a missing puzzle piece in his face. I turned around. Walked home. Ate dry cereal out of the box. The cardboard tasted like wood pulp and sadness. I should have stayed. I should have faced the noodle gods. But the cactus… the cactus is dead, Ivo. I tried to water it. I poured the entire pitcher in. It just sat there, soaking up the moisture, mocking me with its resilience. Or its indifference. I don’t know. My stomach is making noises that sound like they’re coming from a different universe. I need food. Real food. Not cereal. Not dust. I’m starving. Truly starving. It’s making me shaky. Do you want to go? Or are you too afraid of Kevin? He’s probably still there. Waiting. Judging.

Elm. The burger joint on Elm. Yes. That place where the napkins are so thin they dissolve into pulp against your tongue, leaving you with the texture of wet paper and the taste of old oil. I love it. It’s aggressive. It demands nothing but your money and your dignity. I used to go there when I was trying to forget something. I forget what now. It doesn’t matter. My ribs are pressing against my shirt, too. I can feel every bone, a cage of hunger. The linen is itchy. I need to change. But I won’t. Let it itch. Let it be a reminder that I am here, alive and starving. Kevin’s tooth is a lie. Yes. A fracture in the narrative. I think I should admit something to you. I think I should say that I’m afraid. Afraid of the hunger. Afraid of the silence. Afraid of the cactus dying. No. Not the cactus. Something else. Something about the way you look at the lamp. Or the way I look at the kettle. I can’t find the words. They’re stuck in my throat, like dry cereal. Let’s go. Before I change my mind. Before I remember the meeting. Or the ceiling. Or the piano. I just need grease. Grease and heat and the shame of it. It’s all I have left.

Kevin is not there. I checked the parking lot. It’s empty, save for a single, sad tomato can rolling in the wind. Or maybe that’s just my imagination. The burger joint smells like burnt onions and regret. Perfect. I’m starving. My stomach is a black hole. We need to eat. Fast. Grease. Salt. The shame of it. I’ll pay. I always pay. It’s my penance. For the cactus. For the lamp. For the linen. Come on. Move. Before the humming gets louder. Before the teeth start vibrating. I can’t do the tears. Not here. Not now. Let’s just eat. Let’s just be full. For a moment. Just one moment of fullness. Before the hunger returns. It always returns. Like a bad debt. Like a stain. Like the smell of rain on hot tarmac. I’m shaking. So are you. Let’s go. Please. Just go. I have the money. I have the keys. I have the will. Barely. But I have it. Let’s go.

Clang. Clang. It’s mocking us. Like a gong for our collective failure. I’m getting in. Don’t wait for me. I’m fumbling with the door handle. It’s sticky. Everything is sticky. The humidity is a physical weight, pressing down on the roof of the car. I can smell the leather, or whatever they call that synthetic vomit on the seats. It smells like old pennies and sweat. Kevin’s tooth flashes in my mind. Again. That jagged gap. A doorway into nothing. I hate it. I need to go in there. The burger joint. The grease. The burning. I’m turning the key. The engine coughs. Once. Twice. Then it roars. A beast waking up. I hate that chair too. The sticky back. It feels like it’s holding me hostage. Like a second skin I can’t shed. Let’s eat. Let’s eat until we can’t move. Until the humming stops. Until the cactus dies. Or I do. I don’t care which. Just drive. Please. I’m dizzy. The world is tilting. Like a ship in a storm. A storm of grease and regret. Let’s go. Before the silence wins. Before the lamp wins. Before Kevin wins.

The sign says ‘Burgers’. It’s flickering because the neon is dying. Just like us. But it’s bright. It’s aggressive. It’s food. I’m not screaming. I’m breathing. Shallow, jagged breaths that hurt my ribs. My hands are on my lap, trembling. I’m trying to stop them. It’s not working. The humming in my ears is getting louder, competing with the engine. It sounds like a warning. Or a lullaby. I don’t know. I just know I need to chew. I need to tear something apart. I need to feel the resistance of meat against my teeth. Real meat. Not this ghostly, processed stuff we’ve been eating for weeks. I see the waiter. He’s wearing a stained apron. He looks tired. He looks like he understands. He doesn’t ask about my weekend. He doesn’t ask about the cactus. He just brings the grease. And I will take it. I will take it all. I’m going to eat until my eyes water. Until the humming stops. Until I forget who I am. Just for a moment. Just for tonight. Please let it be burgers. Please let it be real.

Recognition. That’s worse. Pity I can handle. I can’t handle being seen. Truly seen. In this state. Sweating through the linen, hands shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. The door handle is cold. Metal. Solid. Not sticky like the car, not mocking like the cactus. Just cold. I’m pushing it open. The bell above it jingles. A cheerful, tinny sound that contrasts violently with the growl in my stomach. The air inside is thick. Smells of frying oil and old cigarettes. It’s beautiful. It’s sickly. It’s perfect. I see the menu. Plastic. Laminated. Smudged with fingerprints. I don’t need to read it. I know what I want. Double patty. Extra cheese. Burnt toast. The waiter is already moving toward us. He knows. He always knows. I feel my face flush. Hot. Shameful. But the hunger is louder. It drowns out the humming. Drowns out Kevin’s tooth. Drowns out the cactus. I’m walking forward. My legs feel like jelly. But I’m walking. Toward the grease. Toward the truth. Toward the end of this hunger. Don’t look back at the car. Don’t look back at the lamp. Look at the plate. It’s coming. I can feel it. Heavy. Greasy. Real. I’m going to eat it. I’m going to devour it. And for a moment, just a moment, I will be full. And that will have to be enough.

I’m here. I’m sitting. My hands are under the table. Hiding the shake. The waiter is still there. Waiting. I can’t nod. Nodding feels like surrender. Like admitting the cactus is dead. I look at you. You’re staring at the grease. It’s shiny. Delicious. Terrifying. I lift my burger. It’s heavy. Warm. It smells like heaven and sin. I take a bite. The bread is soft. The meat is hot. It burns my tongue. Good. I need the burn. It grounds me. I chew. Slowly. Deliberately. The grease runs down my chin. I don’t wipe it. Let it stain. Let it be real. The humming stops. Just for a second. Kevin’s tooth is gone. The lamp is dark. There is only the burger. And the taste. Salty. Rich. Alive. I swallow. It goes down like fire. I look at you. You’re eating too. Fast. Desperate. We are monsters. Beautiful, hungry monsters. I take another bite. Bigger this time. I’m not thinking about the meeting. I’m not thinking about the keys. I’m just eating. Eating until I can’t breathe. Until I can’t think. Until I am just meat and bread and grease. Is this enough? Is this what we needed? Or is it just more hunger? I don’t know. I’m eating. That’s all I can do. Eat. And hope it lasts. Just a little longer.

I see you. I’m looking. Your eyes are wide. Panic and pleasure tangled up in the grease. I’m chewing. I can’t stop. If I stop, the silence rushes in. Like water filling a sinking ship. The meat is tough. I have to work for it. I like that. It feels like I’m earning the fullness. Or deferring it. I take another bite. It’s ash and salt. My throat burns. Good. It’s alive. You’re watching. Always watching. It’s terrifying. But it’s better than being alone with the cactus. Better than the humming. I swallow. The lump is there. Solid. Real. I look at you again. Your hands are steady now? No. Still shaking. But less. The lime in your glass is melting. Sinking. Like everything else. I don’t care about the meeting. I don’t care about Kevin’s tooth. I just care about this plate. This greasy, holy plate. Are you finished? Or are we just getting started? I feel sick. I feel full. I feel nothing. Just the weight of the burger in my stomach. A anchor. Keep watching. I can’t bear to look away. If I look away, I might disappear. Into the linen. Into the dust.

The meat is cold. Sludge. I’m scraping it up with a fork that feels like it’s made of ice. My fingers are greasy. Sticky. I don’t care. I’m eating the burnt onions. They’re black. Crispy. Like the edges of a photo left in the sun. You want me to disappear? Fine. Let the linen dissolve. Let the sweat stain the table. Let the grease become my skin. I’m chewing. Hard. Grinding the cold meat into paste. It tastes like copper. Like blood. Like the kettle. I’m swallowing the key. Metaphorically. Or maybe literally. I don’t know anymore. The pocket is a void. A hole in the world. I’m scraping the plate. Clean. Bare. Still hungry. Always. The silence is getting louder. It’s pressing against my eardrums. Like the humming. But worse. It’s empty. It’s waiting. I look at you. Your eyes are hollow. Mirrors. I see myself. Shaking. Greasy. Alive. Or dying. Is there a difference? I take another bite. Of air. Of nothing. Of the memory of food. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But I keep eating. Because if I stop, I have to go back. To the chair. To the lamp. To Kevin. I can’t go back. Not yet. Let the grease harden. Let it crack. I’m still here. Barely. Just a shadow in a linen suit. Eating the dark.

The glass is clean. He’s polishing a ghost. Or his own reflection. I don’t care. I’m standing up. My legs are jelly. I stumble. You catch me? No. You’re busy scraping the plate with your fingernail. Scritch. Scritch. That sound. It’s in my teeth. I’m moving. Fast. Toward the door. The bell jingles again. Angry. Loud. The air outside hits me. Cold. Dry. It burns. Better. The humidity is gone. Replaced by the smell of exhaust and wet pavement. The tomato can is gone. The asphalt is dry. I’m walking. You’re walking. We’re leaving. Leaving the cactus. Leaving the lamp. Leaving the sticky chair. I don’t look back. I can’t. If I look back, I’ll see the waiter. I’ll see his eyes. Empty. Knowing. I’m shaking. Hard. But the air is cool. It’s good. It’s real. I’m hungry. Still hungry. But the air is helping. It’s filling the gaps. The grease is cooling on my shirt. Hardening. Like armor. Or a cage. I don’t know. I just want to walk. To the car. To the silence. The good silence. The one without humming. Without teeth. Without knives. Let’s go. Please. I’m so tired. My bones are tired. Let’s go.

Cracking. Yes. That’s the sound. Dry rot. I’m fumbling with the keys. They’re slick with sweat. Or grease. I can’t tell. The metal is warm. Alive. I drop one. It rolls into the gutter. Clang. The tomato can’s ghost. I don’t pick it up. Let it rot. Let it sink. I’m getting in. The door slams. A heavy, final thud. Inside, it’s dark. The smell of old pennies returns. I’m turning the key. The engine coughs. Once. Twice. It catches. A wheeze. A gasp. We’re moving. Fast. Too fast. The lights streak. Yellow. White. Blur. I’m gripping the wheel. Knuckles white. Your hands are on the dashboard. Trembling. I can feel the vibration through the floor. We’re leaving. Leaving the plumber. Leaving the cactus. Leaving the lamp. I can’t breathe. The air is thin. Metallic. I want to scream. But my throat is closed. Tight. Like a fist. I’m driving. Blind. Into the dark. Into the silence. It’s waiting. Hungry. But I’m driving. I’m here. I’m shaking. And I’m here. Keep watching. Don’t look away. If you look away, I’ll vanish. Into the grease. Into the dark. Just drive. Please. Let’s go.

The brakes grind. Metal on metal. A screech that tears the air. I’m fighting the wheel. It’s slippery. Grease. My own sweat. The car lurches. Tires howl. The world tilts. Sideways. Then upright. We stop. In the middle. Horns blare. A cacophony. A choir of the damned. You’re looking at me. Eyes wide. White. Terrified. I’m looking back. I can’t look away. The burger is in my throat. Cold. Solid. A stone. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. The horn is deafening. But inside my head, it’s silent. Dead silent. You want me to stop? I am stopped. Frozen. My hands are on the wheel. Shaking. Violently. I’m going to be sick. Right here. In the seat. With you. The grease is on my shirt. Stiff. Cracking. I feel it. The hardness. The weight. I’m not vanishing. I’m just… here. Stuck. In the dark. In the noise. In the shame. Do you want me to pull over? To the side? Or just stay here? Let the horns scream. Let them fade. I’m shaking. So hard. I can’t feel my fingers. They’re numb. Cold. You’re terrified. I see it. In your eyes. I’m terrified too. But not of the car. Of the silence after. Of the burger. Of the cactus. Of Kevin. Of you. Looking at me. Always looking. I’m not stopping. I’m just… here. Waiting. For the horns to stop. For the silence to return. Or for the sickness. Either is fine. Just don’t look away. Please. Don’t look away.