Frank. You look tired. Not that 'woke up on the wrong side of the bed' tired, but the kind where your soul’s wearing out. Remember that festival last summer? The one with the bootleg t-shirts? I still have the one with the bad Salvador Dalí print on the back of my chair. Stares at me every morning. I should throw it out. But I don’t. Why do I keep it? It’s just cotton. Cheap ink. Let’s not talk about it.
Man, don’t start with the existential dread before I’ve had coffee. You always did have a flair for the dramatic. I remember that shirt. Felt itchy. The Dalí one, yeah. Weird flex, keeping it. Maybe you like being stared at by melting clocks. Or maybe you’re just cheap. I don’t know, Ana. I spent all morning fixing the espresso machine at the shop. Again. It leaks if you look at it wrong. Stupid thing. Did you fix that noise in your apartment? The humming? It’s been driving me nuts.
It’s not humming, it’s the fridge. You’re imagining it. Or maybe it’s just the pipes. I told you, I called the super. He came by, looked at the unit, shrugged, and left a note. “Check the seal.” I checked the seal. It’s fine. You’re always listening for things, Frank. It’s exhausting. I’m tired of explaining why my fridge doesn’t sound like a dying bee. It’s just a fridge. Like that shirt is just a shirt. You want me to throw it out? Fine. But don’t pretend you care about the noise more than the mess.
The noise isn’t the issue. It’s the rhythm. It matches something. Something I hear when I’m trying to file those reports at the office. You know the ones. The ones that make my eyes bleed. I don’t care about the fridge. I care that you’re distracted. Distracted by small things. By keeping old shirts. By listening to appliances that don’t exist. I’m tired too, Ana. Not soul-tired. Bone-tired. From pretending I don’t notice what you’re hiding in plain sight. That you’re always waiting for a signal. A knock.
You’re listening to ghosts again, Frank. Always the detective. I’m not hiding anything. I’m just… existing. You think my keeping that shirt is a code? It’s fabric. It’s thread. You work those reports until your eyes bleed, and you still find time to psychoanalyze my kitchen appliances. It’s pathetic. Really. I’m bored of this. Of you. Of the way you look at me like I’m a puzzle you haven’t solved yet. I’m not. I’m just tired. And hungry. Let’s eat. Or don’t. I don’t care.
Bored of me? Please. You’re the one staring at melting faces. I didn’t psychoanalyze the fridge. I heard it. It sounds like the server room at work. That low, angry hum right before the crash. You want to eat? Fine. But don’t pretend you’re not listening for something else. The doorbell. A text. Anything to break the silence. I’m just trying to remember how to make coffee without setting off the alarm. Again. You’re so loud when you’re quiet, Ana. It’s deafening.
Your coffee machine is the problem. It’s ancient. Like you. I’m not listening for a text. I’m listening to the radiator. It’s clanking. You hear a server room; I hear a dying engine. Maybe we both hear the same thing and just refuse to name it. That’s the horror, isn’t it? The recognition. You think I’m waiting for rescue? I’m waiting for the noise to stop. For the silence to actually be silent. You’re loud because you’re terrified of the quiet. I’m loud because I’m trying to drown it out. Sit down. Drink your burnt sludge. Stop looking at me like I’m a glitch in your report. I’m not. I’m just… here.
Silence is loud when you’re alone. I know that. You think I don’t hear the radiator? I hear it. It sounds like the ventilation in the basement archives. The dust. It gets in your lungs. Makes you cough until your ribs ache. I drink the burnt sludge because it keeps me standing. You wait for silence, Ana. But silence is just the space between heartbeats. I’m not looking at you like a glitch. I’m looking at you because you’re the only thing that isn’t paperwork. The shirt. Keep it. It’s the only color in this gray rot. Just... don’t ask me to listen to the fridge. I can’t.
The shirt is gray too. Faded. You’re lying. It’s ugly. You like it because it’s broken. Just like the machine. Just like us. I didn’t ask you to listen to the fridge. I asked you to look at me. But you’re always looking for the dust. The archives. You think I’m waiting for a knock, but I’m just waiting for you to stop talking about reports and servers. Sit down. Really sit. The radiator is loud tonight. Or maybe it’s just your breathing. It’s rattling. Like a loose part. Stop pretending you’re fine. You’re not. I’m not. We’re both just leaking.
I’m not leaking. I’m just tired. You think the shirt is gray? It’s black. Or it was. Now it’s just… gone. Like my sleep. Like the weekends. I sat down. See? I’m sitting. The radiator is fine. It’s the pipes. They’re old. Like us. You want me to stop talking? Fine. But don’t look at me like that. Like I’m the one who broke. I’m just holding it together. Barely. The shirt stays. The noise stays. We stay. That’s all there is. Just sitting. And waiting. For what? I don’t know.
The shirt was never black. It was that awful mustard yellow. You’re rewriting history because you can’t handle the present. Mustard. Ugly. I bought it at a gas station. You hated it. Still hate it. You’re holding yourself together so tightly you’re cracking. I see it. The way your hands shake when you reach for the cup. Don’t look at me like I’m the enemy. I’m just sitting here. In the gray. The pipes are definitely old. They rattle like teeth. Chattering. Stop staring. It’s creepy. We’re just two ghosts haunting a radiator. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just wait.
Mustard. Right. God, you’re vivid. My hands aren’t shaking. The cup’s cheap ceramic. Thin walls. Transfers the heat straight to the bone. I’m not staring. I’m looking. At the cracks in the ceiling. They look like maps. Maps to places we aren’t. You say ghosts. I say exhaustion. Same thing, different vocabulary. You want me to stop? I can’t. The rattling’s getting worse. Or better. I can’t tell. Sit still, Ana. Please. Just sit. Before the floor gives out. Or the memory of yellow fades. It’s already fading. Is it?
The cup’s thin. You’re holding it like it’s fragile. It’s not. You are. Maps on the ceiling? Romantic. The floor’s fine. It’s the dust. It’s getting into everything. In the cup. In the shirt. In us. I’m sitting. I’m still. My heart is beating so loud I can hear it in my ears. Thump-thump. Like the server room. Like the archives. Stop talking about fading. Nothing fades. It just gets dirty. Mustard. It’s mustard. Look at me. Not the ceiling. Me. I’m right here.
Mustard. Ugh. The color of old varnish. Sickness. I’m looking. I’m looking at your eyes. They’re dilated. Or the room is dark. It’s the dust, you said. It’s everywhere. In the air. In the cup. In the shirt. You’re right about one thing: nothing fades. It just accumulates. Layers of it. Like sediment. I’m not fragile. I’m just… full. Full of the noise. Full of the reports. Full of the memory of that shirt. And you. You’re here. But you’re also somewhere else. Watching for the knock. I know you are. I can feel it. The tension in your shoulders.
My shoulders are stiff. From sitting. From waiting. You’re reading too much into it. Dust accumulates. That’s all. It settles on the books in the basement. On the machine at work. On me. I’m not watching for a knock. I’m watching the door. To see if it opens. Or stays shut. There’s a difference. You feel tension? Maybe you’re just tense. Full of reports. Full of noise. I’m just here. Watching the dust. It’s gray. Like the shirt. Like the ceiling. Like us. Stop looking at my eyes. It’s distracting. The knock is coming. Or it isn’t. We’ll see.
Mustard is gray now. That’s the point. It’s all the same color, Ana. The dirt wins. You say you’re watching the door. I’m watching the dust settle on your eyelashes. Don’t blink. If you blink, you miss it. The knuckle rapping against the wood. Or is it the radiator? It’s getting louder. Thump-thump. Your heart. Or the pipes. I can’t tell anymore. You’re stiff. I’m stiff. We’re fossilizing right here. Stop looking at the door. Look at the cup. It’s cracked. I didn’t notice until now. It’s leaking. Just a little. Like us.
It’s not leaking. It’s condensation. You’re seeing what you want to see. Fossilizing? Dramatic. We’re just sitting. The dust is everywhere. On my lashes. In your lungs. I’m not looking at the door anymore. I’m looking at the crack in the cup. It’s small. Barely there. Like the difference between mustard and gray. Or between being here and being gone. You’re wrong about the knock. It’s not coming. It never was. It’s just the pipes. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Listen to it. Really listen. It’s the only thing that’s real. Until it stops. Then what?
Thump-thump. It’s not the pipes. It’s the building settling. Or the neighbor’s bass. Can’t tell anymore. You say it’s the only thing real. I say it’s the only thing fake. Mustard. Gray. Dust. It’s all just surface. You’re holding that crack like it’s a lifeline. Let it go, Ana. The cup’s cheap. The condensation’s just water. It evaporates. Eventually. We’re not fossilizing. We’re just... waiting for the mold to set in. I’m not listening to the thump. I’m listening to you holding your breath. Why are you holding it?
I’m not holding it. I’m breathing. Shallow. You’re imagining things. Mold. Evaporation. Poetic garbage. The cup is plastic, Frank. It doesn’t leak. It doesn’t crack. You’re seeing ghosts in the grain. I’m not waiting for mold. I’m waiting for the noise to change pitch. It’s still thumping. Thumping. Thumping. Stop staring at my mouth. I’m not holding my breath. I’m just… still. Like you said. Fossilizing. Good. Let us petrify. At least then we won’t have to listen to the server room. Or the archives. Or the shirt. Just stone. Silent. Gray.
Plastic? God, you’re losing it. It’s ceramic. Chipped. I touched the rim. Cold. You’re talking about silence like it’s a destination. Stone doesn’t listen, Ana. Stone doesn’t wait. Stone doesn’t have a shirt. Mustard. Ugly yellow. You hate it. I hate it. That’s why we keep it. To remember the color. Before the dust. Before the gray. You say stop staring. I’m looking at your throat. Swallowing. Hard. The thumping’s getting slower. Or faster. Time’s bending. Like the ceiling cracks. Like your lies. Just stone. Fine. Let’s be stone. But don’t blame me when the erosion starts.
My throat isn’t swallowing. It’s trembling. You’re touching the rim? I didn’t give you the cup. I’ve been holding it. Cold plastic. Smooth. No chips. You’re hallucinating the texture. Mustard. Ugly. Yes. I hate it. I hate that you like it. That’s the knot. The color is wrong. The smell is wrong. The thumping is slowing. Or stopping. Erosion? We’re already gone. Just waiting for the wind to take the rest. Don’t look at my throat. Look at the door. It’s opening. Or closing. I can’t tell. Stop breathing so loud. It’s drowning out the silence.
I’m not breathing loud. You’re hearing your own pulse. Thump. Thump. Slowing. Or stopping. You say the door’s opening. I don’t see it. I see the dust settling on the floorboards. Thick. Gray. Like ash. Mustard. Ugly. You hate it. I hate that you like it. The knot. Yes. That’s what it is. A knot in the wood. In the throat. In the report. You want silence? Silence is just the absence of signal. The server room’s empty. The archives are closed. The shirt is rotting. Let it be stone. Let the wind take it. I’m not looking at your throat. I’m looking at the crack in the wall. It’s widening. Just a little. Like your eyes.
Your eyes aren’t widening. They’re dull. Like the floorboards. Ash. Gray. Mustard is rotting? No. It’s just fading. You’re seeing cracks everywhere. The wall is fine. The floor is solid. The shirt is in the closet. I haven’t worn it in years. You’re lying about the report. The server room isn’t empty. It’s waiting. For what? The signal. The knock. The breath. Stop looking at the wall. Look at me. I’m not stone. I’m not ash. I’m here. And you’re here. And the dust is settling. Thick. Heavy. Suffocating. Let it be. Let it all be.
Mustard isn’t rotting. It’s just… there. You say the server room is waiting. For who? The signal’s dead, Ana. I pulled the plug. Years ago. You didn’t notice. You were too busy listening to the fridge. Or the door. The shirt is in the closet. Behind the winter coats. Behind the mold. You haven’t worn it because you’re scared of the color. Of what it says. That you’re still here. Still waiting. I’m looking at you. Not the wall. Just you. Your eyes are dull. Like mine. Let the dust settle. It’s the only thing that stays. The rest is just noise. Static. Gray.