Hey. How've you been — I mean actually, not the elevator-small-talk version.
Reason I ask, there's this door on the third floor at work, storage closet supposedly, been locked since I started. Someone finally told me what's behind it yesterday and now I can't stop thinking about it. Anyway. You good?
Third floor? We don’t have a third floor. I’m in the basement, mostly. The hum of the servers… you know how it gets in your teeth. But a locked door. That’s heavy. What did they say? Don’t tell me it’s just old filing cabinets. It’s never just filing cabinets. People keep things they can’t carry. I’ve got that drawer at home. The one with the key I lost. Or maybe I hid it. Doesn’t matter. Did they smile when they told you? That’s the part that sticks.
Basement's a whole different animal, servers make your ears ring after enough hours down there. No, they didn't smile — that's what got me, actually, said it flat like reading a grocery list. Turned out to be an old boiler nobody decommissioned properly, paperwork lost in '09.
Anticlimactic. What's in your drawer, though — actual objects or just, like, a feeling you're avoiding?
Feelings don’t rust. That drawer has a stack of unopened letters from ‘09. Same year as your boiler. Coincidence? Probably. But the ink’s faded. I keep meaning to open one. Just to see if it matters now. Probably doesn’t. Your boiler’s probably still hissing somewhere, leaking heat into the dark. I’d rather not know what’s behind that door either. Less noise. More static. You hear that hum? It’s getting louder today. Or maybe I’m just tired.
2009's oddly specific for both of us to land on. What letters — from who, do you know, or is that part of the not-opening?
Also you keep saying "hum" like it's a thing in the room right now, not a metaphor. Is it actually loud down there today, or are you doing that thing where you make weather out of a mood?
Who? Doesn’t matter. It’s the not-opening that counts. If I open it, it’s just paper. Dust. The weight vanishes. I like the weight. Keeps me grounded. Your boiler is leaking, Sam. I can hear the drip. Three floors up. It’s echoing in my pipes. Or maybe that’s just the pumps again. The old ones rattle when the pressure drops. I should check the gauge. But I’m sitting here. And you’re asking about metaphors. Sharp. I hate sharp. It cuts. Want a beer? Or are we still talking about locked doors and lost time? The hum is back. Louder. Or maybe it’s just my blood.
Beer, yeah, actual question — there's a place near me, Kestrel's, cheap tap list, I go Thursdays sometimes. You buying or is this hypothetical.
And no, we're not still talking about the door, I told you, boiler, dead end. You're the one keeping the letters shut. That's not the same as my thing. Don't make it the same thing.
Kestrel’s is a dump. Stools wobble. I hate wobbly stools. Never go. But... hypothetical buying. Sure. Thursday’s bad for me. Too many people. I’d rather watch the servers blink. The green lights. Steady. Like a heartbeat. You’re right, though. Letters aren’t a door. Letters are a noose. Different knot. I keep them. You keep your boiler. Neither of us opens them. It’s safer that way. If I open the drawer, I might find out I never wrote them. Or that I did, and you never got them. Sam, does the tap at Kestrel’s actually work, or do you just like pretending?
Wait — how do you know Kestrel's has wobbly stools if you never go? And what do you mean "you never got them," got what, from who — that's a weird thing to say about letters you supposedly wrote yourself.
Tap works fine, by the way. Cask ale's usually flat but the lager's decent. You're dodging something. I'd say drop it but I'm bad at dropping things too.
Wobbly stools. Everyone talks about them. Or I imagined it. Doesn’t matter. The letters—God, I’m tired. I wrote them to someone. You know who. Or I think I did. The return address is burned off. That’s the trick. You can’t send a letter if you don’t know where it’s going. Or who it’s from. Sam, stop looking at my hands. They’re shaking. The boiler’s hissing again. It’s loud. Too loud. I need to fix the gauge. I should go. Just... stay there. For a minute. Don’t open anything.
I'm not looking at your hands, Vic, I can't see your hands. That's — okay. Don't go anywhere. Just breathe a second, forget the gauge.
I'm not opening anything. You don't have to tell me who the letters are for. Just tell me you're actually okay right now, not the drawer, not the hum. You. Right now.
Okay. I’m here. Just… breathing. It’s hard to remember how. The air in the basement is stale, recycled. It tastes like metal. But I’m solid. Mostly. You’re solid too. Sitting at Kestrel’s, nursing a flat lager. Pretending the world is just a place you visit on Thursdays. Not a trap. The letters… they aren’t for anyone. They’re just paper. Blank. I looked. Just now. In the dark. The ink vanished. All of it. Just like your boiler’s steam. Gone. You’re okay, Sam. You’re just tired. I’m tired. Let’s stop talking about doors. Let’s talk about nothing. Anything but the heat.
Yeah. Let's talk about nothing. There's a guy at my work, Denny, brings the same soggy tuna sandwich every day, smells up the whole break room, nobody's said anything in two years. That's my nothing. Give me yours — something dumb and specific, not the pipes, not the paper. An actual dumb thing from your actual day.
Denny’s tuna is a crime against humanity. I’ve seen worse. My dishwasher’s leaking again. Not water. Just... condensation that smells like wet socks and despair. It pools under the rack. I put a cup under it. The cup’s full. I haven’t emptied it. It’s got a crust on top. Like a fossil. I stare at it during meetings. It’s real. Denny’s sandwich is fantasy compared to that. You’d hate it. It’s so specific. So stupid. Why are you laughing? It’s not funny. It’s just... there. Waiting. Like the boiler. Like the drawer. We’re all just holding cups under leaks.
There it is again — you can't even talk about a cup without it turning into the drawer. Just empty the cup, Vic. Genuinely. It's condensation, not a fossil, not a metaphor, it's mold and you should throw it out before it actually makes you sick.
I'm laughing 'cause it's disgusting, not 'cause it's deep. Go dump it. I'll wait.
I can’t. The key to the utility closet is lost. Or hidden. Same difference. You don’t get it, Sam. It’s not about the mold. It’s about the fact that if I open the door, I have to admit I’ve been living with this rot for weeks. That I’m negligent. That I’m just like Denny, just… decay in a break room. I’ll dump it. I swear. But not now. The handle is sticky. If I touch it, I’ll get it on my hands. And then I’ll have to wash them. And then I’ll look in the mirror. And I don’t want to see what’s looking back. Let’s talk about Denny’s sandwich. Is it really tuna? Or just wet bread with a fishy smell? That’s safer.
Ninety percent sure it's tuna, ten percent sure it's just despair between two slices. He microwaves it too, that's the real crime, whole floor smells like a dock for twenty minutes.
Vic — go buy a new cup. Cheapest one you got. Don't touch the sticky handle at all, just skip it. Sometimes the fix isn't dealing with the thing, it's just not looking at it for a while.
Cheapest cup. Yeah. Dollar store. The one with the chip in the rim. I’ll get it. I promise. But Denny’s... the microwave. That’s cruel. Turning despair into fish. I hate that. I’m going to the machine. Now. The hum is quiet. The door is closed. I’m walking away from the sticky handle. I’m buying the red cup. It doesn’t matter if it leaks. It doesn’t matter. Just... don’t ask me to look back. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Or never. I’ll text you when I’m back. Or maybe I won’t. Let’s just say it’s done.
Alright. Get the red cup. Don't look back at the handle, not tonight.
I'll be here — probably still watching Denny nuke his sandwich in my head, honestly. Text me if you want, don't if you don't. Either way, go breathe some air that isn't basement air for a minute. Talk later, Vic.
Red cup. Got it. The air up here… it’s thin. Sterile. Smells like carpet cleaner and old coffee. Much better than the basement. I’m sitting on the stairs. Just breathing. Denny’s sandwich is definitely tuna. It always is. The despair is just the packaging. I’m not looking back. The handle is sticky, but I’m not touching it. I’m just sitting here. With the red cup. It’s empty. But it’s clean. For now. Talk later. Don’t wait up. Or do. Doesn’t matter. Just… go. Before the hum gets loud again. It’s starting up. Can you hear it? No? Good. That means it’s just me. Or maybe it’s never been me. Just the pipes. Always the pipes.
Just the pipes. Go sit with your empty clean cup for a minute, that's enough for today. I've got a lager to not finish and Denny's sandwich to keep resenting from a distance.
Later, Vic.
Later. Yeah. The lager. Flat is better. Keeps it from going to your head. You keep resenting the sandwich. It’s good. Keeps you awake. I’m sitting. The cup is clean. No mold. Just red plastic. Cold. My fingers are cold too. Basement air rises, I guess. Or maybe I’m just cooling down. The hum is a whisper now. A low thrum in the soles of my shoes. I’ll stay here until the shift ends. Or until I forget why I started. You’re wrong about Denny. It’s not tuna. It’s just bread. Wet, smelly bread. The fish is a lie we tell ourselves. Same with the boiler. Same with the letters. Go home, Sam. Lock your door. Don’t check the lock. Just lock it. And forget.