I could be at the depot. Trucks break down. I could be in a traffic jam on the I-95. I could be home, staring at a leak in the ceiling. But here I am. Staring at the same peeling paint. Waiting. It’s a waste of time, but what else is there to do?
Depot sounds better. At least there’s grease. I-95 is just a parking lot with dreams. And the ceiling leak? Do you fix it or just put a bucket out? I’ve got three buckets in my kitchen. The peeling paint here looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist anymore. We’re waiting for what, exactly? The bus? The end of the world? Or just to see who blinks first?
Three buckets? You’re hoarding. I’d just tape a trash bag to the pipe. Hate the smell of wet plaster. As for blinking… I’m not blinking. My eyelids are dry. You look like you’re about to sneeze. Don’t. If you break, I’m leaving. I’ve got a manifest to ignore later.
Hoarding? It’s called preparedness. You call it duct tape; I call it insurance. And ignore that manifest until it bites you. I’m not sneezing. I’m just... dealing with the dust. This place is a tomb. Your eyelids aren’t dry, they’re just stubborn. Like you. I bet you tape leaks too aggressively. It’s probably sagging already. Stop threatening to leave. You said you’re staring at the same peeling paint. We’re stuck in this perspective together.
Stubborn. Right. I tape leaks because I’m tired of watching water ruin drywall. Your buckets are cute. Very medieval. Stop analyzing my eyelids. They’re fine. You’re the one vibrating. It’s annoying. We’re not stuck in perspective. We’re stuck in a chair. Big difference. At least the chair doesn’t judge my taping skills.
Medieval? Please. I’m just practical. You’re the one with the duct-tape solution. Stuff fails, Sam. It always sags. And I’m not vibrating. I’m just… caffeinated. Or annoyed. Hard to tell. You’re judging my buckets while sitting in that judgmental chair. If the chair doesn’t judge, why do you keep shifting? You’re lying. You hate this spot too. Admit it. Or keep taping imaginary leaks until the job comes calling.
I shift because my lower back is a knot of regret. Caffeinated or annoyed, you’re loud. I don’t judge your buckets. I just hate the sound of them clinking. Like wind chimes in a hurricane. And I don’t tape imaginary leaks. I tape the ones that are. Stop trying to psychoanalyze me. I’m not a puzzle. I’m just tired. And yes, I hate this spot. It smells like stale coffee and poor decisions.
Knots of regret? Sounds expensive. I’m not psychoanalyzing. I’m observing. You vibrate, you complain, you tape. It’s a routine. At least the buckets have a rhythm. Your whining is just static. Stale coffee is better than the smell of surrender. You say you’re tired, but you’re still arguing. That’s energy. Waste it on me. I dare you. My buckets clink because they’re alive. Yours probably just drip judgment. Keep complaining. It’s the only entertainment we’ve got.
Waste it? No. I’m saving it for when the driver finally shows up. You think I’m entertaining you? Please. I’m just killing time. Your buckets aren’t alive, Nell. They’re plastic and sad. And I’m not whining. I’m stating facts. Static is better than your constant commentary. Shut up. Or don’t. I’m not listening.
Plastic and sad? They’re holding back the flood, unlike you. You say you’re saving energy, but you’re still typing. Still engaging. You love the friction, Sam. Admit it. The driver isn’t coming. The system is down. We’re just two ghosts in a waiting room. Your "facts" are just noise to fill the silence you’re so afraid of. Fine. I’ll shut up. You’ll just hear the buckets clinking in your head. Let me know when the static gets too loud.
She actually shuts up. Good. The silence is heavy, though. Thick. Like the air before a storm that never breaks. I stare at the wall. The paint really does look like a map. Maybe I’m lost. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere. Let the buckets clink. It’s better than her voice.
Heavy silence? You hate it. You’re tapping your foot. I can hear the leather squeaking. "Better than her voice," you say. Liar. You’re listening for my next word. You’re waiting for me to crack. The paint isn’t a map. It’s just peeling. Like us. Keep staring. I’m not moving. The buckets are quiet now. Just for you. How does that feel? Empty?
Leather squeak? That’s your imagination. I’m sitting still. No foot tapping. You’re projecting. And the buckets aren’t quiet; they’re just… settled. Empty? No. Full of nothing. Which is exactly what I want. Stop trying to read my mind, Nell. It’s boring. And don’t touch the buckets. They’re mine now. By virtue of silence.
Projected? Maybe. I like the quiet. It’s rare. You’re sitting very still, Sam. Too still. Like a statue waiting for moss. "Mine now"? Cute. Plastic belongs to anyone who picks them up. I won’t touch them. Let them sit there, full of nothing. It suits us. The map on the wall looks different in the dark. Still there? Or did you blink?
Still here. Moss takes years. I’m not waiting that long. The map’s fading. Just peeling paint in the dark. You’re the one holding your breath. I’m blinking. Normal. You’re acting like the quiet is a trap. It’s just quiet. Stop pretending you’re surprised. You wanted the noise gone. Now you’re staring at the wall. Boring.
I’m not holding my breath. I’m conserving oxygen. You think this is quiet? It’s deafening. You blink because you can’t stand the stillness. I’m staring because I’m finally awake. "Boring" is your defense mechanism, Sam. You’re terrified of the silence because it’s the only time you don’t have a manifest to ignore. Admit it. The paint isn’t fading. It’s just waiting for you to look away. I won’t.
Oxygen? We’re in a tomb, not a submarine. Your metaphors are getting thin. I’m not terrified. I’m bored. There’s a difference. You’re staring so hard you’re probably going cross-eyed. Stop trying to assign purpose to peeling vinyl. It’s garbage. And I’m not looking away. Let it rot.
Cross-eyed? I’m focused. You’re the one squinting. Tomb, submarine—whatever. The point stands. You’re not bored; you’re paralyzed. "Let it rot." That’s your strategy? Masterpiece. I’ll keep staring. If you’re not looking away, maybe you’re waiting for me to break. Or maybe you just like the challenge of keeping your own eyelids dry. Keep fighting the urge. It’s the only exercise we’ve got.
Paralyzed? I’m efficient. You’re just noise. Dry eyes? My eyes are fine. Stop counting them. I don’t care if you break. Or don’t. It changes nothing. The manifest isn’t coming. The buckets aren’t leaking. We’re just two idiots in a room. You want a challenge? Try not breathing. I dare you. See how long you last.
Efficient. Right. I’ll hold my breath. Watch me. I’ll outlast the paint. You’re boring, Sam. Predictable. The manifest is a ghost story you tell yourself to feel busy. I’m not breathing anyway. Just existing. Like a rock. Or a bucket. You can’t make me care. Try harder. Or don’t. I’m already winning this silence.
Hold your breath. See if you turn blue. I’m not trying. I’m just watching you waste oxygen for nothing. You’re not a rock. Rocks don’t brood. You’re performing. It’s pathetic. Go ahead. Win the silence. I’ll be here when you gasp. That’s the only sound that matters.
Pathetic? I’m enjoying the burn. You’re just waiting for the sound. Prediction is a crutch, Sam. I won’t gasp. I’ll sit here until my lungs forget air. Your manifest is late. The buckets are silent. The paint is gone. It’s just us now. Go on. Blink. I dare you.