Hey. How was your weekend? Did you... you know, swim in anything? I saw the news about the municipal pools closing again. Water quality, apparently. Or maybe they just forgot how to filter it. I stood outside the chain-link fence for twenty minutes yesterday. It looked like a dried-up lake bed. Blue tile, cracked and dull. Weirdly pretty, in a sad way. Did you go anywhere?
Pool’s closed? Again? Great. That explains why I walked past the complex on my way to the grocery and felt weirdly bereaved. I spent the weekend helping my sister move. Box after box of her ex’s stuff. Cardboard lungs. Smelled like stale beer and regret. I didn’t swim. I barely moved. My back is killing me. You stand by fences staring at cracked tile now? That’s... specific. I tried to ignore the news. Didn’t work.
Cardboard lungs. I like that. It’s accurate. Stale beer and regret is a heavy mix to carry up stairs. I’m sorry your back’s wrecked. I’d offer to massage it, but that sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen. You’re right, staring at cracked tile is specific. It’s just... quiet there. No shouting kids. No chlorine burn. Just blue. I went back yesterday. Same fence. Same silence. You should’ve seen it. It was waiting for me. Probably nothing. Just cracks. But they looked nice.
Massage? Please. I’d snap in half. Or sue you, honestly, the drama in my life is usually legal in nature. You’re creeping me out, Frank. "Waiting for me"? It’s concrete. It doesn’t wait. It just sits there, judging your life choices. I don’t get it. I’ve got a stack of invoices from the firm that just grows. The printer jams every Tuesday. Real magic. Meanwhile, you’re having a spiritual moment with a chain-link fence. Did you at least bring a jacket? It’s windy.
Breezy. Right. I stood there shivering, wondering if your ex was the type to leave socks everywhere. That’s the real tragedy. Not the pool. Just… abandoned cotton. You think I’m creeping you out? I’m just bored, Tess. My boss spent forty minutes yelling about ink cartridges this morning. The printer’s fine. He just likes the sound of his own voice. I brought a jacket. It was damp, though. Near the fence. I’m not having a spiritual moment. I’m just avoiding my apartment. It’s empty. Too quiet. Unlike your sister’s boxes.
socks. You’re obsessed with laundry. It’s weird. I didn’t know you tracked my ex’s habits. Did you… talk to him? No, don’t answer that. My back throbs. Not from the boxes. From thinking. The ink cartridge thing is classic middle-management power trip. I hate that smell. Wet wool. Damp concrete. You’re sitting on that curb in the dark? That’s not boredom, Frank. That’s negligence. Go home. Call someone. Anyone. Even me. No, don’t. I’m busy. I have to file these. The printer’s jammed again. Tuesday. Always Tuesday.
Obsessed? I heard you mention it once. Weeks ago. You remember things, too. When you care. Wet wool is the smell of giving up. I’m not on the curb. I’m on a bench. Three blocks away. It’s colder there. The printer jamming on Tuesdays is a pattern. I noted that. You’re right about the ink. It smells like ozone and panic. I’m not calling anyone. No one’s home. My phone’s dead. Or I left it in the other coat. The one with the hole in the pocket. You tell me to go home. But home is where the dust settles. Here, at least, the wind moves it.
You remember the socks? That’s… weirdly sweet. In a creepy way. I didn’t think you were listening. You’re on a bench? Three blocks? That’s close. Too close. The wind moving dust is better than dust settling? Frank, you’re drowning. I can smell the damp wool through the phone. Or whatever you’re using. Don’t use my phone number. I have invoices. Real ones. Not metaphorical ones. Go inside. Please. Before I come get you. And I’m not wearing good shoes.
Socks. You said they were at the bottom of a box. I’m not drowning. I’m sitting. The phone’s just a phone, Tess. I didn’t use your number. I’m calling from a landline. The one at the diner. The bartender knows me. He gave me coffee. Black. You’re close. Three blocks is nothing. I can see your building. The light’s on in your window. I didn’t know you had that one. The one with the crooked shutter. I’ll go inside. If you want. But the dust is interesting there. It dances. You should see it. When the sun hits it just right. Like gold.
Landline? At the diner? That’s the one on 4th? You’re lying. Or you’re hallucinating. I don’t have a crooked shutter. It’s a white blind. Bent. But not crooked. You’re seeing things, Frank. Or watching. Don’t watch my window. Please. It’s creepy. I’m not comfortable. I’m sitting here, staring at this invoice, and I can’t stop thinking about you sitting on that bench. With the dead phone. It’s not funny. Go home. I mean it. I’m locking the door. Or I will. If you don’t move.
4th Street. Yes. The one with the flickering neon sign. I’m not lying, Tess. You have a white blind. It’s bent. That’s what makes it crooked to me. I’m not watching your window. I’m looking at the street. The rain’s starting. You said you weren’t comfortable. I’m leaving. Now. The diner phone is ringing. I’ll pick it up. It’s just the bartender. He wants to know if I paid for the coffee. I didn’t. I’m walking away. Don’t lock the door for me. Lock it for you. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll go. I promise. Just... let the dust settle.
Flickering neon? On 4th? That sign’s been dead since ’09. You’re making this up. Or you’re in a different city. Frank, stop. You’re scaring me. Not the poetic stuff. The specificity. The blind is bent. How do you know that? I don’t care if you’re leaving. I care that you were there. Watching the street. I’m locking the door. Triple lock. The chain too. Go home. Find your other coat. Fix your life. Or don’t. Just stop calling from diners that don’t exist. I can’t sleep knowing you’re out there in the rain. With the dead phone. It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s kind of sad. Shut up. I’m listening. Don’t speak. Just be gone.
You’re overreacting. The sign flickers at night. Or it does now. Maybe they fixed it. You never go to 4th Street anymore, do you? Or maybe I’m just messing with you. That’s the trick, right? To make you look. To make you check the lock. I’m not dead. The phone works. I’m walking now. Past the bakery. The one with the broken glass. I’ll turn left. Then right. Then home. Don’t listen to the rain. It’s just water. And I’m just Frank. Go to sleep, Tess. Triple lock doesn’t stop me. But it stops you from feeling safe. That’s worse.
The sign hasn’t flickered since 2009. I checked. I always check. You’re lying. You have to be. My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Triple lock is all I have. You say it stops me from feeling safe. That’s… precise. Cruel, but precise. I’m not sleeping. I’m sitting here, staring at the door. The rain sounds different tonight. Louder. Or I’m just more awake. Don’t turn left. Turn right. Go home. Please. I’m not playing this game. I’m not. But I’m listening. God help me, I’m listening. Just go.
I’m turning right. Toward the river. The rain is loud, yeah. It drowns out the city. You’re right about the sign. It’s dead. I made it up. God, I’m pathetic. I just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you. That’s all. I’m not watching. I’m walking away. The wet pavement smells like iron. I’ll be home soon. The other coat is in the hall closet. I’ll wear it. Please, Tess. Don’t sit there staring. Go to bed. I’m gone. Just... gone.
Iron. That’s rust. Or blood. Don’t call it iron. I’m not staring at the door anymore. I’m staring at the invoice. The numbers are blurring. You made up the sign. You liar. Pathetic? Maybe. But you’re gone. That’s what matters. The other coat. The one with the hole. Good. At least you have something. I hope the rain washes you clean. Or rusts you. I don’t care. Just stay away. From the fence. From my window. From the diner. I’m turning off the light. The blind is still bent. I can see it. It’s staring back. Go to sleep, Frank. Or don’t. I’m not waiting. I’m really not.
Bent blind. Staring back. You’re imagining things now. I’m already inside. Door locked. No rain. Just the hum of the fridge. The coat’s on the chair. Hole’s still there. I didn’t wash it. Couldn’t be bothered. You’re off the hook, Tess. No more fences. No more signs. Just... silence. I’m not waiting. I’m asleep. Or close to it. Don’t call. Don’t text. Just breathe. I’m gone. Truly gone. For tonight. At least.
Bent blind staring back. That’s the image I have now. Stuck in my head like a splinter. I’m drinking wine. Cheap stuff. It tastes like vinegar and regret. Exactly like the boxes. I told you not to call. Not to text. You’re asleep? Or pretending? Doesn’t matter. I’m locking the deadbolt. The chain. The second lock. Just in case. The invoice is still on the table. The printer is silent. Tuesday is over. I hate that I’m relieved. I hate that I’m listening for footsteps. Go to sleep, Frank. Truly. I mean it. Don’t dream about me.
Vinegar. You’re drunk. Or just tired. The printer’s silent because it’s done. You’re locking the door. Good. Keep it locked. I’m not sleeping. I’m sitting in the dark. Coat on the chair. Hole facing up. I’m not dreaming. I’m thinking. About the bent blind. It’s not staring back. It’s just... crooked. Like you said. You’re relieved. I’m not. I’m cold. But I’m home. No rain. No fence. Just me. And the coat. And the silence. Don’t listen for footsteps. They’re not coming. I’m staying here. For now.
Crooked. Not bent. You’re pedantic even in the dark. I’m not drunk. I’m exhausted. The kind that settles in the marrow. The printer’s done? Or broken? Doesn’t matter. I’m drinking the vinegar. It burns. Good. Keeps me awake. You’re cold. Typical. You left the coat. Again. It’s mocking me, Frank. That hole. It’s a mouth. I can’t unsee it. You say you’re staying. For now. That “for now” hangs there like smoke. Go to bed. Stop thinking about blinds. Stop thinking about me. I’m turning off the lamp. The room goes black. Just like you want. Silent. Empty. Finally.
Mouth. You’re giving it a mouth. That’s your problem. You project. I’m not cold. The heater’s busted. Again. I wrapped myself in the coat. It smells like damp dog. Good. It’s real. Not like your blinds. Not like my lies. I’m staying. For now. The smoke is just steam from the kettle. You’re turning off the lamp. Good. Dark is better. Safer. I’m here. In the chair. Waiting. Not for you. For the morning. When the light comes back. And the lie fades. Go to sleep, Tess. Please. Before I start talking again.
Damp dog. Great. Now I’m picturing a wet, shivering hound in your chair. You wrapped yourself in it. Again. Projecting? Maybe. I see mouths where there are none. You see lies where there’s just a bent blind. The kettle steam. Right. Because that explains the cold. I’m tired of this. Of the back-and-forth. Of the coat with the hole. I’m going to bed. Not because you said so. Because I need to. To stop hearing your voice in the dark. Stop talking, Frank. The morning will come. It always does. Even if it’s gray. Especially if it’s gray. Goodnight. Or whatever.
Gray. Yes. That’s the color of the invoice. And the sky. I’ll stop talking. The dog is sleeping. The coat is heavy. I’m not lying about the steam. It’s just... condensation. You’re going to bed. Good. Sleep. Don’t dream of blinds. Or holes. Or me. The morning will be quiet. I’ll be quiet too. Until Tuesday. Which is gone. For now. Goodnight, Tess. Or whatever.
Invoice gray. Sky gray. You’re obsessed with color now. The dog is sleeping? You’re projecting again. I’m not dreaming of the hole. I’m dreaming of the printer jamming. Of Tuesday. Of you standing by the fence. I hate that I remember the tile. Blue. Cracked. I’m turning over. The sheets are cold. Or I am. Goodnight, Frank. Don’t come back. Not tonight. Not ever. I mean it. The kettle hisses. Steam. Condensation. Lies. I’m asleep. Probably. Or close to it. The dark is heavy. Like the coat.