Open by asking how they've been, meaning something specific by it. Push off from this if it helps: a dog that won't look at you.

So, have you actually been okay? Or is it just that you're pretending to be? Because you're doing that thing again, where you're looking everywhere in the room except at me. It's like you're trying to avoid a direct hit. Like that stupid terrier at the park yesterday—the one that kept staring at the gravel instead of its owner. You're doing the gravel thing, Kit. Are you actually fine, or are you just waiting for the conversation to finish so you can go back to your own head?

"A long week at the office." Honestly, you say that like you’re managing a crisis instead of just filing papers. You're so defensive. It’s just a conversation, you say, but you're acting like every sentence is a personal interrogation. And don't give me that business about the dog's eye. It wasn't a speck of dust, it was a choice. You’re avoiding. There’s a difference between having something on your mind and letting it weigh you down until you're practically dragging your feet. Is it the office, or is it something else you're not saying?

"Even you," he says. Like I’m some sort of whirlwind you have to brace for. You're so dramatic when you're tired. And now you're pivoting to 4th Street? That’s your classic move, isn't it? If the subject gets too heavy, just jump to the food. It's fine. It's a perfectly fine, safe little exit strategy. I haven't been to that place, but I suppose it's easier to talk about menu prices than to actually answer a question. If you want to pretend we're just two people talking about lunch instead of... whatever this is, then fine. Let's talk about the menu.

"Is that enough of an answer for you?" God, you're acting like you're being cross-examined by the police. It's just brisket, Kit. You make it sound like some profound revelation. But fine, we'll stick to the food. It’s much safer. You can just sit there with your "easier subjects" and let everything else drift away. It's a neat little way to live, isn't it? Just keeping the surface level so nothing gets messy. Is that what you do at the office too? Just keep things at a manageable, digestible level so you don't have to really deal with anyone?

"Just meant to stay on the surface." You say that like it’s a virtue. Like you’re some kind of master of efficiency because you don't want to deal with the weight of things. And now the brisket is the "messy" topic. You're so quick to deflect, aren't you? You take the tiniest little thing—a bit of price, a bit of meat—and you use it as a shield. It’s funny, really. You pretend you’re the one being practical, but you’re just managing the distance. You're so busy keeping it at a "manageable level" that you're barely even here.

"A performance." Now you've gone and made it about me. It’s funny how you can make being "present" sound like an exhausting chore. Sitting in a chair is one thing, but you’re sitting there like you’re waiting for a signal to leave. And you're right, maybe you should go find something more dramatic. It’s a lot of work, isn’t it? Keeping everything so perfectly level. You're so afraid that if you actually engage, you'll lose that careful little balance you've built. But you're not losing anything, Kit. You're just... drifting.

"A grander purpose." You say it like you've already decided there isn't one. You're so much more comfortable when things are small, aren't you? Just existing, just sitting there, just being... fine. It's a very clever way to avoid the mess. But you don't just "exist" in a chair, Kit. Not the way you're doing it now. You're sitting there with your chin up, making sure the walls don't move, like you're guarding a perimeter. If you just sat there without the armor, would you actually be able to relax? Or would it all just... tip?

"Nothing there to guard." Now you're being uncharitable. You're saying that because you think it'll make the "shattering" seem less likely. If there's nothing there, then there's nothing to lose, right? It's a perfect defense. You make yourself a blank space so no one can find a crack. It’s clever, really. And you're right, it is exhausting. It’s exhausting to watch you navigate a room like it’s a minefield when you're the one who laid the explosives. You're so busy being perfectly braced that you've forgotten how to actually be heavy.

"Who's going to get anything done?" There it is. The efficiency argument. You treat your life like a checklist to keep from having to feel the friction of actually living. You're so busy being the one who 'holds things together' that you've become a hollowed-out version of yourself just to keep the structure upright. It’s not about being gut-wrenching or a catastrophe, Kit. It's about not being a ghost in your own skin. But you'd rather be productive than be real, wouldn't you? It's much easier to be busy than it is to be seen.

"Picking at the seams." So that's what you think of it? Just people poking around at the little holes you've left for yourself? You talk about "feeling everything" like it's some sort of messy hobby you can't afford. It’s not a hobby, it’s just... being alive. But fine, keep your seamless life. Keep moving. If you're so afraid of tripping, maybe you should stop walking so fast to get away from everything. You’re so careful not to let anyone in, but you're also the one who keeps starting the conversation just to find a way out. It's a lot of work, isn't it? To be that empty.

"The exit is the only way to stay sane." You're so ready to go. You've got one foot out the door before the brisket even arrives. It's always about the exit with you, isn't it? Like you're constantly calculating the distance to the nearest door. You talk about "getting through the day" like it's some sort of heavy lifting, but you're really just managing the volume. It's a very efficient way to avoid the truth. You think if you stay moving, if you keep the production low, nothing can catch you. But you're already halfway gone, Kit. Where are you even running to?

"Nothing left to stay for." There it is. The ultimate elegant retreat. You say it with such a heavy sort of lightness, as if you've just made a sensible observation about the weather. It’s the perfect, tragic little line to end on, isn't it? If there’s nothing left, then you don't have to explain why you're pulling away. You don't have to deal with the messy, beautiful, terrifying business of being stuck. You're just... gone. It's much cleaner that way. No friction, no weight. Just a perfectly smooth, empty space where a person used to be. Is that what you want? To just vanish into your own neat little nothing?

"Finished with this particular conversation." You're so clinical about it. Like you're closing a file at the office. You say you're not a vanishing act, but you're already halfway out the door. You're making it so you can leave without feeling the weight of it. It's easier to be the one who leaves, isn't it? Then you don't have to worry about being left. You're so busy being "finished" that you've practically already disappeared. So go on then. Go back to your quiet, empty house. Go back to your life where nothing ever has to be more than a list of things to get through.

"Why haven't you let me go yet?" God, you're so dramatic. You act like you’re a prisoner of war, not just someone who's finished a chat over dinner. If you're so desperate for a breath of air, why are you still standing here, catching your breath? You're just using that 'quiet' house as a bunker to hide in. You're so busy analyzing the air you're taking in to make sure it’s not too heavy, but you're still breathing it. Fine. Go. Go to your quiet, perfectly managed life. But don't act like you're a martyr for wanting a moment of peace.

"If you want me to stay, just say that." You're so clever, aren't you? You package your own need for a fight into this neat little package of 'honesty' so you can blame me for the tension. You want a simple, easy 'stay,' but you want it to be on your terms—without the weight, without the truth. It’s the same old thing, Kit. You want the comfort of presence without the cost of it. You want to be held without being touched. You’re so terrified of a standoff that you’ve turned every quiet moment into a battleground just so you can feel like you're winning.

"A trophy." You think this is a game where we're collecting points? You're so quick to turn everything into a contest just so you can walk away with the high ground. And there you go again—the trench. You're digging it even as you name it, making it a way to distance yourself. It’s a brilliant move, really. If you label the space between us as a 'trench,' you can pretend you're just a surveyor instead of someone standing right there. You’re so afraid of the ground being uneven that you’d rather build a fortification. Is it really a climb, or are you just afraid of the footing?