Oh — hey. Wait, you're the one who put salt in the coffee tin instead of the sugar jar, right? You told me that like it was nothing, "oh yeah my kitchen's a disaster," and I've thought about it more than is normal. Did you ever fix that or are you just living with occasional violently salty coffee now.
Yeah, I still drink it. Gets you sharper in the morning, honestly. Besides, the kitchen's fine now. I moved to a studio off Elm, place with a weird creak in the floorboards. You'd hate the noise. Sarah was over last week and she actually laughed when I made her toast. Said I have a specific charm when I'm incompetent. I think she's just being polite.
Sharper in the morning — sure, that's a coping mechanism dressed up as a lifestyle choice. And no, I wouldn't hate the creak, I'd probably learn its rhythm and start setting my clock by it, that's the kind of person I am.
Who's Sarah though. "Polite" people don't laugh at toast, they just eat it and lie about liking it. Sounds like she's not being polite at all.
Sarah's my sister. Or she was, until she moved to Portland and stopped answering texts about the house fire. Anyway, she laughed because she knows I burn everything. You're reading too much into the toast. It's just salt and sour bread. The creak's on the second step, not the floorboard. You'd trip over it before you heard it.
Wait — house fire? You just slid that in like it was a footnote. Are you fine, is the studio actually habitable or did you just trade one disaster for a slightly warmer one.
And relief, apparently, that Sarah's your sister — not that it matters. I'd still trip on the second step, you're right, I have the spatial awareness of a man reading a menu while walking.
It's habitable. The fire was just a toaster explosion in the old place, nothing like a real blaze. Don't make it a mystery. I paid for a new unit, the landlord didn't even care. You're the one obsessing over the step. I remember you once tripped over a curb in the rain and apologized to the concrete. Just come over, I'll sweep the salt out first time.
The concrete deserved that apology, it came out of nowhere.
Toaster explosion downgraded from "house fire" to "unit malfunction," classic Frank inflation. And yeah — fine, I'll come over, but I'm not promising not to find the salt tin first and just leave it there out of spite. Consider it a housewarming tax.
The salt tin's already empty, you'll find nothing but dust. And for the record, I didn't inflate anything; you just have a dramatic vocabulary. Don't leave the dust, it'll track on your shoes. I need to go before the shift at the warehouse eats the evening. You'll show up or you won't. No need to overthink the tax.
Warehouse shift, right — you mentioned that grimly once before, like it was a punishment you signed up for voluntarily. Go, don't be late on my account. I'll show up. Probably early, probably with the wrong shoes for a dusty floor, but I'll show up.
Good. Bring the wrong shoes. The warehouse is fine, just boxes and fluorescent lights. Don't be early, I won't be ready. And if you see Sarah's name on a package, just ignore it. She's sending stuff she doesn't want anymore. Anyway, I'm locking up now. Don't trip.
Noted — ignore Sarah's box, don't be early, don't trip. That's a lot of instructions for someone who's "locking up now." Go, before the fluorescent lights start missing you.
Fluorescent lights don't miss anyone. They just hum. I'm gone. If you come early, you're listening to the creak alone. Don't wait for a knock.
Don't wait for a knock, got it — I'll just let myself in and introduce myself to the creak personally. Go hum with the lights, Frank.
Sounds like a plan. Just don't touch the stuff on the desk. It's mostly unpaid bills and that old radio that only picks up static. I'm not waiting, just walking. See you when you get here.
Untouched desk, unpaid bills, a radio that only does static — sounds like the world's saddest still life. See you when I get there.
Static's better than listening to the news. It doesn't lie about anything. Just... don't touch the bills, okay? One of them has a stamp I shouldn't have ignored. And the radio's fine, it keeps me company when the warehouse stops humming.
One of them has a stamp you shouldn't have ignored — that's not an "okay, moving on" sentence, Frank, that's a whole story you're skipping. But fine, I'll leave the bills alone. Go make peace with your static.
It's just a stamp from a letter she never sent. No story, just paper. Don't make it mean more than a missed envelope. The static will be enough. Go ahead, leave. The shift clock's already ticking and I'm not paying for another minute of this.
"A letter she never sent" is doing a lot of quiet damage in that sentence, but sure — just paper. Go clock in before it costs you. I'm leaving. The bills stay bills, the stamp stays a stamp.
It's not damage, it's just a piece of paper. Stop talking about the stamp. I'm already walking. The door's open if you need to let yourself in later, but the creak's the only thing that's gonna talk to you tonight.
Alright, alright — paper's paper, I'll drop it. Door's open, creak's the welcome committee, got it. Go clock in, Frank. I'll deal with the floorboards myself.
Good. The floorboards don't care about your feelings either. Just don't trip. I'm gone.
Nobody around here cares about my feelings, apparently, floorboards included. Go — I've got it from here.
Floorboards and stamps and Sarah. You're making a parade out of nothing. I'm walking now, not waiting for a speech. The shift doesn't start itself. Close the door behind you.
No speech. Just — go, before you're late and blaming me for it. Door gets closed. See you tonight, Frank.
Late is a state of mind, but the clock isn't. I'm gone. Don't let the static get too loud.