You mentioned that dog. The one that acts like you’re glass. I saw something today, big mutt with one ear up, just staring at a brick wall. Felt that same chill. Weird how they know when you’re trying too hard. Anyway, you eat yet? I’m starving.
The one with the ear? Yeah, Buster. He’s got that look. Like he’s waiting for you to shatter so he can sweep you up. I saw him yesterday, just staring at the labrador next door. You’re right, it’s creepy. How do they even see that? The desperate energy? Anyway, I’m starving too. My stomach’s been growling since lunch, which was just a protein bar because my boss, Dave, kept me late again. He’s such a jerk. Do you want to grab tacos? I’m tired of my apartment, the acoustics are terrible. It feels like the walls are closing in.
Dave. Right. The guy who steals your lunch money literally. Tacos work. My place is a disaster zone anyway—my roommate, Sarah, is painting the hallway again. It smells like turpentine and regret. But tacos beat staring at these walls. I’ll bring the beer. The cheap kind you pretend to like. Meet you at the usual spot?
Lunch money? I don’t have lunch money, Omar. Dave eats my yogurt. The good Greek kind. It’s a power move. But tacos sound good. Sarah’s painting again? Last time she used that green stuff, the smell lingered for a week. Made me sick to my stomach. Remember? Anyway, the usual spot works. The one with the wobbly chair. I hate that chair. Why do they keep it? It’s like they want you to fall. Bring the cheap beer. I need something to numb the headache Dave gave me. You’re late again, aren’t you? You always are.
Dave eats your yogurt? Jesus. That’s not power, that’s just sad. And I’m never late. You’re just early again. Like clockwork. That wobbly chair is a myth, Frank. It’s fine. Just lean left. I’ll be there. Don’t wait. Or do. I don’t care. Just... have a beer ready. For both of us.
Yogurt is a soft target, sure. But he knows I don’t buy more. It’s about control. Anyway, I’m already there. Three minutes ago. The chair wobbles when you shift your weight, not just lean. You’re imagining things, or you’re just tired. The light in the window is on, though. That’s something. I got the beer. Two. Cold. I didn’t know if you wanted the cheap stuff or the slightly less cheap stuff, so I got both. In case you change your mind. Or in case I do. Don’t make me wait longer. The dog is watching from the bushes again. It’s staring at the brick wall. Same way.
You’re already there? I was in traffic. Or maybe I was just thinking about how stupid that wall looks. You got both beers? Good. I hate making choices. That dog is creeping me out, Frank. It hasn’t blinked. I’m coming. Don’t talk to the dog. And don’t touch the wobbly leg. If it breaks, it’s on you.
Traffic? Please. You’re just stalling because you’re anxious. I didn’t talk to the dog. It’s ugly, but it’s not worth the breath. The leg’s fine. It’s held up for ten years. Your roommate’s paint fumes are giving you a headache, I can hear it in your voice. We used to just show up, remember? No drama. Just… showing up. Now it’s all this… performance. Whatever. The door’s unlocked. Come in. If the chair breaks, I’m not paying for it. Again.
Anxious? I’m bored, Frank. There’s a difference. You’re the one projecting. And I’m not coming in. Just the door. Like last time. I’m standing right here. Did you finish the beer? Or is it still sitting there, sweating? The dog’s still there. It’s weird. Stop making it weird. Just open the door.
Sweating? It’s condensation, you idiot. Physics. Don’t pretend you don’t know how moisture works. I’m not projecting. You’re standing outside like a ghost haunting your own life. Last time you said the same thing. “Just the door.” Then you didn’t show up. The dog hasn’t moved. It’s not weird if we don’t call it weird. But you’re calling it weird. That’s the problem. You always do. You need everything to be a sign. I’m drinking the beer. The other one is yours. You can take it, or you can rot out there with the mutt. Dave wouldn’t understand this, but then, Dave doesn’t understand anything. Open the door, Omar. Please. Just one door.
Physics. Right. You always correct me. The door’s open. I’m in. Beer’s cold. That’s enough. The dog’s gone. Probably. Stop staring at the empty spot. It’s creepy. And stop saying “please.” It sounds like you’re asking for a favor, not drinking a beer. Sit down. The chair’s wobbly. Just... don’t move too fast.
Finally. You’re late, but you’re here. The beer is cold. That’s the only truth that matters right now. I didn’t stare at the empty spot. I was watching the light shift on the floorboards. Different thing. You’re holding the bottle wrong. It’s slippery. I’m not moving fast. I’m sitting still, which is harder than you think with Dave’s voice in my head. He ate the yogurt. Again. I didn’t say please. I said sit. There’s a difference. You’re shivering. Is it the paint fumes still in your nose? Or just the cold? Don’t look at the door. It’s closed.
Slippery? It’s condensation. Physics. You’re the one shivering. Dave’s voice is loud today. Sorry. I’m not looking at the door. I’m looking at you. You’re gripping that bottle like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. Drink. Before it warms up. And stop correcting my grip. It’s fine.
Gripping it because your hands are cold. Or mine. Hard to tell. The ice is melting. It’s pathetic, really. How we do this. We used to drink until the sun came up, not sit in the dark pretending we’re not terrified of the silence. You’re looking at me? Good. Look at me. See what’s left. Dave is just a man who steals yogurt. He’s not a voice. He’s a guy in a cheap suit. You’re the one making it a voice. Drink the beer, Omar. Before it gets warm. Before I get tired of being the one who stays. I’m not floating. I’m just… heavy. You’re lighter than you look. It’s annoying.
I’m not looking at what’s left. I’m looking at the fact you remembered the yogurt thing. You always remember the useless shit. And I’m not terrified of silence. I’m just waiting for you to stop talking about my weight. Drink the beer, Frank. It’s getting warm. And for the record, I’m not lighter. I’m just... efficient. Unlike you. Staying.
Efficient. That’s a word. Like a machine. You’re not efficient, Omar. You’re just running. That’s why the dog was staring. It smells the motion. The frantic little heart beating against the ribs. I remember the yogurt because it matters. It’s a fact. You ignore facts. You treat everything like it’s temporary, like if you don’t look at it, it’ll dissolve. But it doesn’t. It sits there. Like a stain. Like Dave’s voice. Like this beer, which is definitely warm now. You’re not lighter. You’re just hollow. There’s a difference. Sit down. Stop hovering. It’s making me nauseous. I’m staying because I have to. Not because I want to. Don’t mistake my resignation for strength.
Hollow. Right. And you’re full of... what? Yogurt resentment? Sit down. I’m sitting. The chair creaks. Happy? You talk about stains like they’re permanent. They fade. Eventually. Or you get used to the smell. Dave’s just a guy. Stop making him a god. Drink the warm beer. It’s all we have left.
Happy? I’m miserable. That’s the point. The chair’s creaking like it’s dying. Just like the rest of us. Stains don’t fade, Omar. They just get darker. You get used to the smell because you’re too lazy to clean. Dave isn’t a god. He’s a mediocre man with a clipboard. You’re the one elevating him because it’s easier than admitting you’re stuck too. I drank the beer. It’s warm. It tastes like regret. Like that green paint Sarah’s using. I can still smell it on you. You said you weren’t looking at the door. But you’re tense. Like you’re ready to bolt. You’re not efficient. You’re just scared of what happens if you stop. Sit still. Let the silence sit. It’s not going anywhere.
I’m not bolting. I’m just… uncomfortable. You’re right. The paint smell. It’s awful. And the silence is loud. Too loud. I hate it when you’re quiet. It’s worse than Dave. At least Dave talks. You just sit there and judge. Fine. I’m sitting. Still. No more moving. Just… wait. What happens if we don’t speak?
If we don’t speak? We rot. That’s what happens. You always thought silence was a vacuum, something empty. It’s not. It’s heavy. It presses down. Like the dog’s stare. I’m not judging. I’m observing. There’s a difference. You’re the one filling the air with noise because you can’t stand being alone with your thoughts. Dave talks because he’s empty, too. He needs to hear his own voice to prove he exists. We’re the same. You hate that. You hate that I see it. The paint smell is stuck in the curtains. Sarah’s never taking them down. They smell like failure. Drink the rest of the beer. It’s warm. It tastes like us.
Rot. Dramatic. You’re obsessed with decay. I’m not filling anything. I’m just sitting here, drinking this swill. And for the record, I don’t hate that you see it. I hate that you make it a spectacle. Sarah’s curtains are trash. Everyone knows it. Don’t drag me into the smog. Drink up. It’s all we’ve got.
Obsessed? Maybe. Someone has to look at the rot instead of painting over it. You say you don’t hate that I see it, but your hand is shaking. Look at it. Stop pretending it’s steady. Sarah’s curtains are trash, sure. But you let them stay. You let everything stay. That’s the problem. You’re not efficient; you’re stagnant. Dave talks because he’s scared of the quiet, just like you’re scared of the truth. I’m drinking. It’s warm. It tastes like copper. Like blood. Or old pennies. Whatever. Just sit there. Don’t move. If you move, the illusion breaks. And I’m tired of holding the pieces. You’re not lighter, Omar. You’re just waiting to collapse.
My hand’s not shaking. It’s cold. The room’s cold. Stop analyzing my tremors like you’re a doctor. I’m not stagnant. I’m… paused. There’s a difference. And if the illusion breaks, fine. Let it shatter. I’m done holding pieces. Dave’s a nothing. Sarah’s curtains are ugly. And this beer is warm. Just sit there. Let it break.
Paused. Yeah. Like a record skipping on the same scratch. You say let it break, but you’re terrified it won’t. That’s why you’re cold. Not the room. The anticipation. My hand isn’t shaking, Omar. It’s steady. That’s the problem. You can’t handle steady. You need the chaos. The spectacle. Dave is nothing, sure. But he’s real. He’s here. You’re just… vapor. In your own apartment. With your paint fumes and your wobbly walls. Drink the beer. All of it. It’s warm. It’s bitter. It’s exactly what you deserve. I’m not holding anything. I’m done. You can shatter yourself. I’m watching.