Rafe. There's a pool near me — municipal, that particular green tint of water that makes you question your choices — and they've had it closed for "chemical maintenance" for something like three weeks now. I think someone's just avoiding a shift. Nobody's rushed to fix it. Very committed avoidance, actually, if that's what it is.
The water does look rather ill. One wonders if the chlorination system is truly broken or if the manager simply enjoys the silence. I had to walk past it yesterday. The tiles were cracked, no wonder. I checked my watch, repeatedly, to avoid looking at the stagnant surface. It felt like being watched by something that had no interest in swimming. Do you ever feel that the city is just holding its breath? Waiting for someone to actually do the work. I suppose I should have reported it. I did not.
Holding its breath, sure — or just understaffed and past caring, which is the less romantic version. I never report anything either. There's a form for it, I've seen it, three dropdowns and a place to upload a photo of the offending puddle. Life's too short. Also I don't love the idea of being the guy the council recognizes by name for repeated complaints. Bad look.
Formalism is a comfort, isn't it? Three dropdowns. Predictable. I filled out a similar one last Tuesday for the streetlamp that flickers in Morse code. I used the "Other" option. Typed "The light is inefficient." They never reply. I prefer the ambiguity. It keeps them guessing about my standards. If I complain too precisely, they might try to fix it. And fixing things is messy. I’d rather the light flicker. It suggests something is happening, even if it is just a loose wire. I keep the receipt. In case I need to prove I tried.
"Proof I tried" — you sound like you're building a case file. I get it though, there's something in keeping the receipt just so nobody can say later you didn't do anything. My drawer at work's got about forty of those. Forms, printouts, nothing urgent, all filed under "in case." Never opened once anyone's asked. Mostly they haven't asked. Anyway — Morse code streetlamp is a better complaint than mine. Mine's just algae.
Algae is persistent. It has its own agenda. My drawer is full of those receipts too. I organize them by date, then by regret. The municipal pool’s neglect is more honest than my workplace’s silence. At least the water is visibly wrong. Here, everything looks fine until the audit. I keep the lamp receipt because it proves I noticed. Attention is a burden, Nell. Most people pretend not to see the flickering. I cannot. It makes the whole street feel unsteady. Like the ground might shift. I hope the algae clears. I do not.
"Organize by regret" — that's a filing system I respect more than most I've used at work, honestly. Ours is alphabetical, which tells you nothing useful. Listen, don't go full unsteady-ground on me over a lamp. Get a coffee, walk the other route past the shop with the bad awning instead. I do that. Avoidance as urban planning. Works better than you'd think, mostly because nobody audits the coffee.
The awning is red. It peels in long, sunburned strips. I noticed it last week. I did not walk past it. I circled the block. Twice. The coffee shop is crowded. I prefer the empty tables. My desk is beige. The walls are off-white. It is exhausting. I tell myself I am avoiding the noise. It is easier to say that than to admit I am afraid of the conversation. I take my coffee black. It tastes like dirt. I do not mind. It grounds me. Nell, you should try the other route. The one without the awning. It is quieter there. The pavement is cracked. It matches my mood.
Black coffee that tastes like dirt and you "don't mind" — that's not grounding, Rafe, that's just penance. I take mine with too much milk, my coworker Denny calls it "beige on beige," which, fair. I'll skip the cracked-pavement route though, my ankle's still off from a stupid fall in June. Not every quiet street needs investigating. Sometimes a street's just a street.
Denny has excellent taste. Beige on beige is sensible. I envy your ankle’s ability to heal. Mine aches when the pressure drops. The street is just a street, yes. I know this. I pretend to walk it anyway. It is a performance. You avoid the cracked pavement because of pain. I avoid it because I am afraid of what the cracks might reveal. A sinkhole, perhaps. Or just more nothing. I drink my dirt coffee. It is better than admitting I am lonely. You should rest your ankle. June was long ago. The pavement does not care about your history. It only cares about your weight.
"Long ago" is generous, it's barely healed, but sure. Loneliness confessed via dirt coffee is still a confession, Rafe, just wearing a disguise. I'm not gonna therapize you over it though — wrong person, wrong day. Denny's actually got a theory that everyone at our office is quietly miserable and just very good at Outlook. Efficient sadness. Anyway, ankle's fine. Pavement can care about my weight all it wants, it's not getting an invitation.
Efficient sadness is the new normal. I suppose. Denny sounds perceptive. Too perceptive. I prefer the fuzziness of Outlook. It blurs the edges. My coffee cup is cold now. I hate drinking it cold. It tastes like metal. I will finish it anyway. Discipline. You call it penance. I call it structure. The pavement does not care, you are right. It only waits. I keep walking. The lamp still flickers. It is a comfort, in a way. To know something is broken. I do not invite the pavement. I respect its indifference. It is cleaner than friendship.
"Cleaner than friendship" is a hell of a thing to say about a lamp, Rafe. Drink the cold coffee, it's fine, metal-tasting discipline builds character or whatever. I'm gonna go deal with an actual person now — Denny's texting me about the printer again, which is somehow always broken and always my problem. Go finish your coffee. Don't circle the block a third time, it's undignified.
The lamp flickers. It is a rhythm. I do not circle. I stand still. It is more dignified than running from a printer. Denny is loud. I can hear him through the screen. The text is blue. It glows. I do not reply. I sip the metal. It is cold. It settles in the chest. You are leaving. The door closes. The sound is final. I watch the dust motes dance in the light. They move without purpose. Like me. The coffee is gone. The cup is empty. I leave it on the table. A small monument to discipline. Do not look back.
Okay, that's a lot of monument for one cup of bad coffee. Go put the kettle on for something that doesn't taste like a radiator, seriously. I'm not reading dust motes as a personality trait, Rafe, that's just poor lighting and a dirty window. Text me when the printer situation resolves itself, or doesn't — either way I want the Denny update. Go sit somewhere with actual chairs.
I cannot text you. My hands are busy. The kettle is a lie. It promises warmth but delivers steam. I prefer the cold metal. It does not pretend. The window is clean. You are wrong. The motes are dancing because they are free. I am not. Denny is a distraction. I will not engage. He wants a solution. I offer silence. It is the only honest response. You want an update. I have none. The printer is a metaphor. It jams because it refuses to produce meaning. I sit. The chair is hard. It supports my weight. I do not move.