Everything's fine, by the way — before you ask. There's a lawnmower going somewhere out there, been at it for twenty minutes, I can't even see whose garden it is from my window. Just noise and heat coming through the glass. How's your week going, or is that also a stupid opening question.
Stupid? No. Just loud, right? That mower's got the same rhythm as the one that broke my dad's lawnmower last summer, same grind, same heat haze. My week's been... fine. The usual grind at the office, trying to finish that report on the new zoning laws, but honestly, half of it is just copying old data. You know how it is. That noise outside? It's actually kind of nice, makes the silence inside less heavy. What are you doing besides listening to it?
Zoning report, god, I don't envy you — I did something adjacent once, town planning minutes for a firm that billed by the hour and made sure you knew it. Copying old data into new templates so somebody can pretend it's fresh work. Yeah. I know how it is.
Me, I'm meant to be doing invoices. I'm not doing invoices. I'm watching a neighbour's cat sit very still under a hedge like it's planning something. The silence thing — yeah. Noise fills in the gaps you don't want to look at too long.
Exactly. That cat knows it. Sitting there like a tiny judge. I tried to read a book earlier but ended up just staring at the dust motes dancing in the light instead. The report's sitting open, full of nonsense I can't quite rewrite, but if I stop moving, I might have to think about the email I got last week. The one with the vague deadline. You know the type. Just pretend it's not there. What's the cat's name? Or is it a stray?
No idea, not mine — probably belongs to the house with the blue door, I've seen her fill a bowl at the step. Cat treats it like a courtroom regardless. Judging the hedge, judging me through the window.
Vague deadline email — yeah, I get those, delete half of them without opening on principle, figure if it's actually urgent someone will just phone. Probably a bad system. Dust motes are underrated though, better use of an afternoon than the report deserves. What's the book, or did you not get that far in either.
Didn't get far. Was some biography of a guy who invented something nobody asked for, pages half-read. The spine's already cracking. I bought it on a whim at that used shop on 4th. You know the one. Anyway, the cat's the real star today. I bet it's plotting a heist or something. Beating the dust motes, I mean. They're just physics, but the cat? That's intent. Real, albeit feline, intent. Maybe I should start ignoring emails too. Just delete them. See what happens. Probably nothing. Or everything. Hard to tell with these people.
4th Street shop, yeah, the one that smells like a basement no matter the weather — I've bought worse books there on worse whims. Half-read biographies of guys who invented something nobody asked for is basically their whole inventory.
Delete them, see what happens — that's the spirit, very cat energy. Intent versus dust motes, I like that. Though if it's "these people" plural you might actually owe somebody a reply. I wouldn't know. I'm no help, I ignore my own inbox on principle too.
"These people" is just me trying to sound important. Like I'm part of a whole thing. We're not. Just two people ignoring things. I did reply to one, actually, just a blurb, nothing real. Felt like lying to a ghost. The cat just moved. It's now staring at a fly on the glass. Maybe it's the same fly from yesterday. Or maybe it's new. Hard to tell. The lawnmower stopped. Now the silence is worse. You hear that? Or is that just me again.
No, I hear it — it does that, cuts out and then the room's too big for itself. I always think something's wrong when a mower stops mid-line like that, like the guy just walked off mid-thought.
Lying to a ghost is a good line, I'm stealing that. Don't tell me what the blurb said, I don't want to know, I'll just picture it worse than it is. Same fly, new fly — genuinely can't imagine caring less, and I mean that as a compliment to the fly.
Good. Keep it that way. The moment you care about the fly, you're trapped. I think the guy just got called inside, probably for lunch or something. Nothing dramatic. The quiet now feels heavier, like the air's waiting for something that isn't coming. I should probably tackle that report before the sun moves too far. Or not. Maybe I'll just watch the dust again. You doing anything actually useful, or just letting the cat judge you some more?
Letting the cat judge me, mostly, it's cheaper than therapy. I'll open the invoices file, stare at it the way you're staring at the report, achieve nothing, close it again. Solid plan honestly.
Go watch your dust. The report'll still be there being terrible tomorrow, that's the one reliable thing about it. Air waiting for something that isn't coming — don't dress it up, it's just Tuesday with the sound off. Go on though, before the light gets weird and you start reading meaning into the hedge too.
Tuesday with the sound off. Yeah, that's it. I hate when you make it sound so simple. Like there's no mystery, just a Tuesday. But the light is getting weird, turning everything this sickly yellow before it fades. It's not reading meaning into the hedge, it's just that the shadows are stretching out weirdly. The cat's gone now, probably found a better spot. I'm just going to sit here until the sun actually moves. Don't go opening that invoice file just to prove you can.
Wasn't planning to, don't worry, the invoice file's safe from my ambition today.
Sickly yellow's a good description actually, that's exactly the shade — like the whole street's underexposed. Sit with it, sun'll move whether you watch it or not, that's the annoying thing about it. I'll go find out if the mower guy's actually eating lunch or if I made that up entirely. Talk later, probably about something equally pointless.
Yeah, talk later. Probably. Don't let the mower guy fool you, he's definitely just standing in the shade. The sun moves, sure, but it doesn't care if we're watching. See you. Or don't. Whatever feels less like a chore.
Standing in the shade, judging his own lawn the way the cat judges everything else. Fair enough, honestly.
See you. Not a chore — just don't expect me to have done anything useful by then either.
Deal. Nothing useful on my end either. Just the report and the dust. And maybe a new fly if the old one finally dies. Take care of yourself. Or don't. Whatever fits the mood.
Whatever fits the mood, yeah. Same to you — go easy on the report, go easier on the fly. Talk soon.
Will do. Fly's got nothing on the dust motes anyway. See you.
See you.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Right. The hedge's quiet again.
Quiet's good. Means nobody's plotting anything, cat included. Go stare at your dust, I mean it.
It's not plotting, it's just waiting. For what, I don't know. Probably a worm. Or the sun. The dust is moving again, barely. You're right, quiet's good. Keeps the weird thoughts at bay. Just for now.