Okay so I'm still here because Marko left the radio on in the back office again, full static, and I've been standing here for ten minutes like it's going to resolve itself into a station if I glare at it hard enough.
It's not going to. I know this. I'm still standing here.
What are you doing up.
Just staring at the kettle. It’s been clicking on for twenty minutes, mocking me. The neighbors down the hall are practicing the violin again, or at least something that sounds like it. I’m thinking of going out. There’s this place on 4th that does terrible coffee but the lighting is forgiving if you want to pretend you’re reading. You look exhausted, Ana. Did you sleep? Or did you just close your eyes and hope for the best? I brought those cookies you like. The ones with the sea salt. They’re on the counter. Don’t ask me how I got them; the baker always saves the burnt ones for people who don’t notice.
The burnt ones, great, so I'm the guy who "doesn't notice." Thanks for that, truly. Though sea salt kind of forgives everything, doesn't it — could hand me a rock with salt on it at this point.
Slept maybe four hours, closed my eyes and negotiated with the ceiling for the rest. Don't start.
That place on 4th — is that the one where the barista draws a face in the foam that always looks slightly furious? I liked that place. Didn't like the coffee. Never told you that.
Go to the violin place. Report back if it's actually Bach or just suffering.
You’re funny. Hilarious. I left the cookies. The burnt ones. Eat them. You need the calories if you’re going to argue with drywall.
As for the coffee shop, the guy with the foam pen quit. Or moved to Ohio. I saw his truck packed. Now it’s just a kid named Leo who draws lightning bolts. They’re messy. You’d hate them. But the chair by the window is soft. The one that smells like old paper and regret.
I’m not going to the violin place. I’d rather listen to that radio static with you. It’s consistent. Predictable. Unlike your sleep schedule, which is a disaster.
Here. Take this. I owe you twenty bucks for the tab last week. I’ll pay you back when I get paid. Which is soon. Stop looking at me like that. It’s just money.
Twenty bucks is not "just money," Ivo, twenty bucks is a tab, which is a debt, which you have now verbally acknowledged in front of a witness — me — so.
I'm keeping this speech for later, don't worry.
Lightning bolts though. That's such an aggressive thing to draw on foam. Leo sounds like he has opinions. I respect that more than furious-face guy honestly, at least commit to something.
And don't be dramatic, the static's not consistent, it drifts, sometimes it almost sounds like a voice and then it's just static again. Kind of like you saying you'll pay me back "soon."
Eat a cookie. I'm eating a cookie. This is fine.
You’re impossible. I ate three. They tasted like burnt toast and poor decisions, exactly as advertised. The static doesn’t drift; your attention wanders. It’s white noise. Clean. Pure. Unlike whatever conspiracy you’re weaving about my repayment schedule. I pay my debts. Usually.
Leo draws lightning bolts because he’s twenty-two and thinks he’s a poet. He’s not. He’s just bored. Like you.
If you want Bach, go record it yourself. I’m staying here. The kettle’s finally stopped screaming. My ears are ringing, which is better than the violin. At least the ringing has a rhythm. Or maybe I’m losing it. Either way, pass me a cookie. The good one. The one that doesn’t taste like ash. I know you’re hoarding the good ones. You always are.
"Usually" is doing a lot of heavy lifting in that sentence, I hope you know that. I'm writing it down. Somewhere permanent. Possibly a ledger.
There is no good one, Ivo, they're all burnt, that's the whole bit, that's the bit you set up two minutes ago. You can't un-burn a cookie by wanting it hard enough. Believe me, I've tried, with several things.
Twenty-two and thinks he's a poet — god, I remember being twenty-two. Thought everything I drew on foam, metaphorically, was profound. Turns out it's just lightning bolts. It's always just lightning bolts.
Stay there then. I'll stay here. Someone has to referee the static.
You’re keeping a ledger. Of course you are. I love that about you. It’s the only reason I haven’t ghosted you into the void yet. You treat debts like they’re sacred texts. I treat them like... well, like I’m trying to pay them back but life keeps happening, you know? The radiator broke. Again.
Leo isn’t twenty-two. He’s nineteen. I checked when I dropped off the tips. He looks older. Tired eyes. That’s the thing about poetry, Ana. It’s just exhaustion with better vocabulary.
Referee the static? Fine. I’ll referee. But if the radio plays "Wonderwall" one more time, I’m throwing the kettle at it. I’m serious. I have the thermal mass for it.
Give me the remote. You’re squinting. It’s making you look twelve.
"I love that about you" — noted, also going in the ledger, under a different heading.
Nineteen? God, that's worse, that's a child drawing lightning bolts at me while I try to read a book I'm not actually reading. Tired eyes at nineteen is just called "being alive now," everyone's got that.
There's no remote, it's a radio, Ivo, it has a dial, this is the whole tragedy of it, you have to commit to turning it.
I'm not squinting, the light in here is bad, has been bad since Marko installed it himself instead of paying someone competent. Twelve. Sure. Fine. Throw the kettle. I want to see the thermal mass argument play out live.
You’re wrong. It’s not bad light, it’s your eyes. They’re tired. You’re tired. We’re all tired.
I didn’t say I was going to throw it. I said I could. There’s a difference. One is action, the other is threat. I prefer threats. Less mess.
Marko’s lighting is a crime against humanity. I told him. He laughed. He thinks fluorescent tubes are “efficient.” Efficiency isn’t the point, Ana. Comfort is. Or at least, not feeling like you’re being interrogated by a hospital corridor.
Here. Take the radio. If it’s so consistent, you control it. I’m done with it. I’m going to eat the rest of the cookies. All of them. Even the burnt ones. Especially the burnt ones. Because I can. And you can’t stop me.
(You owe me five for the kettle if I break it. I’m watching you.)
Oh so now I owe you five, hypothetically, for a kettle you haven't broken and are threatening not to break — you can't just invent debts going the other direction, that's not how ledgers work, I don't care how hard you glare at that appliance.
Fine. Give me the radio. I'll be a responsible custodian, unlike some people with cookies.
All of them, even the burnt ones, especially the burnt ones — that's not a threat, Ivo, that's just you being hungry and dressing it up in principle.
Marko laughed at you? Of course he did, he laughed at me too, right before he installed a light that makes everyone look like they've been recently exhumed. Comfort. Exactly. Someone in this building has to say it.
Marko laughed because I pointed out the bulbs are flickering. He said it’s "character." It’s a seizure waiting to happen.
The radio is yours. Handle with care. If you tune into jazz, I’m leaving. I have standards.
And I’m not dressing anything up. I’m hungry. There’s a difference between hunger and principle. Usually. Sometimes they overlap. Like with you and your ledger. You keep counting, I’ll keep eating. We balance each other out. Or we don’t. Who cares?
The kettle is safe. For now. Don’t make me regret leaving it unguarded.
Also, you owe me three more for the lightbulbs Marko ripped out last month. I paid for the replacements. You ignored the bill.
Check your ledger, Ana. Triple-entry bookkeeping. It’s a thing.
Triple-entry bookkeeping is not a thing, Ivo, you made that up just now, I watched you make it up.
Also I didn't ignore the bill, I disputed the bill, there's a difference, one is negligence and the other is due diligence — you're the one who keeps trying to launder a twenty-dollar tab into a lightbulb dispute, this is escalating and you started it.
Jazz. Absolutely. I'm doing it out of spite now, you've forced my hand. If you leave, take the cookies with you, they're a liability.
"We balance each other out, who cares" — very easy for the guy currently up three dollars and a kettle threat to say.
I'm not counting. I'm documenting. There's a difference. Usually.
You’re twisting words. Triple-entry is a thing if you believe in it hard enough. Like jazz. Like Leo’s lightning bolts. You’re playing jazz now? That’s petty. Beautifully, stupidly petty.
I didn’t start it. You brought up the ledger. I just added flavor.
Three dollars is three dollars. It’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. You documented it, I acknowledged it. We’re even. Until you dispute the lightbulbs again. Then we’re not even. We’re in court. Small claims. I have a lawyer friend. He’s terrible. You’d love him.
Eat the cookie, Ana. Just one. Stop analyzing the salt content. It’s edible. Barely.
If I leave, I take the kettle. Not the cookies. The kettle has more character. And it’s louder.
You’re impossible. But you’re my impossible. Don’t let it go to your head.
"My impossible" — okay, going straight to the top of the ledger, above the twenty bucks even, that's saying something.
Don't let it go to my head, sure, fine, too late, already there, already renovating.
I'm not analyzing the salt content, I'm respecting it, there's a process, you wouldn't understand, you eat things like they've personally wronged you.
Small claims — bring the terrible lawyer, I'll bring Marko as a character witness, he'll testify about the flickering lights and somehow make it about efficiency again.
Take the kettle. Character and volume, sure, very compelling case, very convincing, go.
I'm eating the cookie. Happy now. Salt's fine. You're impossible too, for the record, since we're apparently doing inventory tonight.
Eat your salted ash. Happy? No. I’m bored. There’s a difference.
Marko would testify that the flickering is "dynamic lighting." He’d try to charge you for the witness time. I know his rates. They’re predatory. But sure, bring him in. I’ll bring the terrible lawyer. His name is Gary. He drives a truck. He doesn’t know law, but he knows how to argue until people are too tired to care. You’ll love him. Or hate him. Same thing, eventually.
I’m not taking the kettle. It’s heavy. And if I leave, who’s going to listen to the radio? You’ll just sit there, glaring at static, pretending it’s jazz.
I’ll stay. For now. The cookies are still on the counter. The kettle is still hot. And I still owe you twenty. Don’t think this changes anything. It doesn’t. It never does.
But pass me one more. For the road. I might leave. Or I might not.
"For the road" — you've said that four times now and you're still sitting there eating my cookies, so either you're the slowest leaver in recorded history or the road isn't actually going anywhere, Ivo.
Gary sounds like a nightmare. I already love him. Bring him. Bring the truck too, park it out front, give Marko something new to complain about besides his own lighting.
Twenty bucks, noted, still there, still not going anywhere either, funny how that works.
Fine. One more cookie. Last one. I'm saying that the way you say "for the road," which is to say it means nothing.
The static's not jazz. But you're still here, so I guess it's doing something right.
The road is right there. Outside. The door is open. I just haven’t walked through it. There’s a difference. Laziness, not destiny. Gary can wait. He’s probably eating a sandwich right now, grease on his chin, judging the world. You’d like him.
Marko will complain about the truck blocking his view of the flickering lights. Perfect irony. I’ll record it. For evidence. Or just for later. Who knows?
The static isn’t jazz. It’s worse. It’s honest. No pretense. No lightning bolts. Just noise. Pure, unadulterated noise. Like my thoughts at 3 AM.
I’m staying. For the cookie. And the company. And the debt. And the kettle. And the light. And the radio. Take your pick. It’s all the same here.
Pass me the next one. If there is a next one. If not, I’ll eat the wrapper. I’m hungry. Really hungry. Not just for cookies. For... something. Whatever. Just hand it over.
"Hungry for something, whatever" — very mysterious, very cryptic, should I be worried or just hand you the last cookie and let you sort your own existential crisis out.
There's no wrapper left, you ate the wrapper already metaphorically, this is a bit, I'm not falling for it.
For the cookie and the company and the debt and the kettle and the light and the radio — that's a lot of reasons to stay, Ivo, you're really building a case here, almost sounds rehearsed.
Fine. Last one's yours. Don't say I never gave you anything, even though technically you still owe me for most of the evening.
3 AM thoughts as static — that's the most honest thing you've said all night, for the record.
Metaphorically? You’re literal. I ate the wrapper in spirit. There’s a difference.
Rehearsed? Maybe. I rehearse everything. It’s a coping mechanism. Like your ledger. Or Marko’s lights. We all do it.
I’m not leaving. The cookie is gone. The taste is... salty. Bitter. Like guilt. Or maybe just burnt dough. I can’t tell anymore.
3 AM static. Yes. That’s the noise. The hum. The thing that keeps you awake. You know it well. I know it well. We’re not so different, you and I. Two people sitting in the dark, listening to nothing, pretending it’s something.
It’s fine. Really.
Pass me the sugar. If you have any. I like my bitterness sweetened. Just a little. Don’t look at me like that. It’s just sugar.
(You still owe me twenty. But I’ll let it slide. For now.)
Hang on — thirty seconds ago it was you owing me twenty, now suddenly I owe you twenty, that's not a slide, Ivo, that's a coup, that's a full ledger insurrection and I'm not signing off on it.
No sugar. There's salt. There's always salt, apparently, that's the entire theme of the night.
We're not so different, sure, fine, very poetic, very 3 AM of you — but I think that's just the burnt cookies talking, or the radiator, or Marko's crime-scene lighting doing something to your brain.
Go home, Ivo. Or don't. The kettle's getting cold either way and someone should reboil it before this turns into a whole other argument.
I don’t owe you twenty. You owe me twenty. Check the ledger, Ana. Don’t pretend you can’t read. The ink is dry. Or wet. Whatever.
Sugar? Please. You think I want sweet? I want honest. This is honest.
I’m not going home. Home is quiet. And quiet is worse than static. At least static has a rhythm. Home just has... absence.
Reboil the kettle. I’ll help. If you want. Or don’t. I’m not demanding. I’m suggesting. There’s a difference.
Marko’s lighting is bad. Gary’s truck is loud. Your ledger is messy. My cookies are burnt. It’s all consistent.
Stay here. Or leave. I’m not stopping you. But if you leave, I’m taking the kettle. And the salt. And the debt.
It’s fine. Really.
Just... sit. For a minute. Before the kettle boils. Before the static changes. Before you remember you’re tired.
Sit.