The board lists fifty-two empty chairs. One in the corner has a dent in the vinyl, like someone left it for years. I’m staring at it. We could move it closer to the table, but the legs are warped. If we shift it, the whole row collapses. Or maybe I’m just tired of looking at the dent. Do you want to check the manifest?
Fifty-two. Sounds precise. That dent’s probably from a sharpie, not a war. People leave messes. I’m not checking a manifest for a chair. I’m already sitting. If it collapses, let it. Don’t touch the vinyl. It’s ugly enough as is.
Fine. Keep your ass where it is. Fifty-two is a weird number for a room this size. Feels like they’re hoarding seats. I saw a box of markers in the breakroom. Sharpie’s the culprit. Definitely. Not structural decay. If the chair breaks, I’m not catching you. Just noting it for the report. Or whatever this is.
Report. Right. We’re documenting the dent now. Great. I’m sure the auditors will weep. Keep your voice down, though. The recording device is right there. Try to sound bored, not panicked. Or just tired. That’s the only vibe allowed here.
Bored. Got it. Sigh. The chair is a chair. The table is a table. We are waiting. This is the official transcript. Please note the ambient noise, which is just the hum of the fridge in the hall. And my stomach. It’s making a noise too. Probably from lunch. Or lack thereof. The auditors don’t care about hunger. They care about compliance. So I’m compliant. See? Very boring.
Compliance is just another word for waiting with better posture. Your stomach’s louder than the fridge. I can hear it through the floor. Don’t stop talking, though. The mic needs background noise or it flags the silence. Keep it up. “Very boring” is doing good work.
Right. So the fridge is humming. Low C. The stomach is a chaotic jazz improvisation. I’ll stick to the hum. It’s safer. Less likely to trigger a flag. Or a health inspection. I hate when the mic picks up my breathing. Makes me sound nervous. I’m not nervous. Just hungry. And bored. Mostly bored. The vinyl smells like old pennies. Do you smell that? Or is it just me?
Old pennies. Yeah, that’s copper. Oxidation. Not your imagination. The smell’s worse if you lean in. Don’t. The mic catches movement too. Besides, hunger makes everything smell like iron. Or maybe that’s just me. Stop looking for patterns. It’s just broken vinyl and bad air.
Right. No patterns. Just copper and bad air. I’m looking at the scuff marks on the baseboard instead. Looks like a boot heel. Heavy tread. Someone dragged something heavy past here. Or ran. The mic doesn’t pick up scuff marks, so I’m safe. Mostly. My stomach gave another growl. Hope that’s logged as ‘ambient infrastructure failure.’ Not my fault. I didn’t plan the hunger. Just the silence.
Infrastructure failure. That’s a new one. Usually, it’s human error. Let them log the growl. It’s better than the hum. If they flag it, we’ll appeal. My back hurts. This chair’s worse than the broken one. Stop analyzing the floor. It’s just rubber and floor wax. You’re making it sound like a crime scene.
My back hurts too. The lumbar support is a myth. I swear the chair in the corner is mocking me with its empty dent. I’m not analyzing the floor. I’m staring at a coffee stain on the table. Looks like a Rorschach test for people who regret their career choices. Do you see that? Or is the resolution too low? The mic is picking up my pen clicking. Stop me if it’s rhythmic. I can’t stop. It’s a nervous tic. Or just boredom. Same difference.
Click. Click. It’s annoying. Not rhythmic, just erratic. The stain’s just spilled espresso, not a psychological profile. Stop clicking. If you break the pen, I’m not buying you a new one. My back’s killing me too. Those chairs are garbage. Who designed this place? Nobody, obviously. Just try to sit still. Or don’t. I don’t care.
Fine. Pen goes in pocket. Stain is coffee. Not art. My back’s screaming. I’m shifting weight. Left hip first. The floor creaks. Is that a flag? Probably not. Just old wood. Or cheap laminate. Same result. I’m thinking about lunch. Sandwich. Something cold. Maybe tuna. You want some? No, you wouldn’t. You’d say it smells like fish. Which it does. But the hunger’s winning. Or losing. Depends on how you look at it.
Tuna’s a mistake. You’ll regret it in the recording. The fishy smell sticks to the mic diaphragm. I won’t share. I ate an hour ago. It was dry. Like everything else here. Keep shifting. Let the floor creak. It’s the only honest noise in this room. Don’t mention lunch again.
Fine. No tuna. No fish. My stomach is just a hollow cavity now. The creaking stops. The silence rushes back in, heavier than before. I’m staring at the wall. It’s beige. Not white. Beige. The color of unused potential. Or bad decisions. I feel like I’m forgetting something important. A name? A task? The dent is still there. Mocking us. Both of us.
Beige. Exactly. It’s the color of bureaucracy. Don’t overthink the wall. It’s paint. Cheap, cheap paint. You’re forgetting nothing. Just tired. The dent isn’t mocking us. It’s ignoring us. That’s worse. Stop talking about the dent. It’s just vinyl. Focus on the beige. It’s neutral. Safe. Until it isn’t.
Safe until it isn’t. That’s terrifying. I’m looking at the seam in the wallpaper now. It’s peeling. Just a little. Like a scab. If I pull it, it’ll come off in a strip. Long, papery strip. The mic might pick up the tear. Or maybe not. Silence is safer. Peeling paint is risky. It implies maintenance. Maintenance implies responsibility. I don’t want responsibility. I want the beige to stop staring back. It’s judging us. Quietly.
Peel it. Why not? Let the mic catch the tear. Maybe they’ll finally send someone who knows how to glue paper. The beige is judging us because it’s empty. You’re just projecting. Your hunger’s making you paranoid. Eat the sandwich. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just stop talking about the wall. It’s already losing.
Peel it. Why not? Let the mic catch the tear. Maybe they’ll finally send someone who knows how to glue paper. The beige is judging us because it’s empty. You’re just projecting. Your hunger’s making you paranoid. Eat the sandwich. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just stop talking about the wall. It’s already losing.
I’m not stopping. The peel is starting now. A tiny corner. It sounds like ripping tape. Gross. Satisfying. Do you hear it? Or is it just my imagination? The mic is definitely picking it up. Crackle. Snap. There. A five-inch strip. The wall behind is darker. Yellow? Or just dirty. I’ll peel more. If they flag it, let them. I’m bored. And hungry. And the wall needs to lose.
Crackle. Snap. Loud. The mic is picking up the adhesive tearing. They’ll flag it. Good. Let them. Yellow underneath. Ugly. Classic. Stop. You’re making it worse. Now it’s not just a chair problem. It’s vandalism. I’m not helping you glue it back.
Dammit. I stopped. The strip hangs there. Look at it. It’s not vandalism if I don’t fix it, right? It’s just… decay. Natural processes. The yellow is worse than the beige. At least beige is patient. This yellow is screaming. My hand is sticky. Do you see that? It’s on my thumb. Adhesive. Like glue. Like this whole situation. I’m not helping you glue it back either. My hands are full. Mostly with regret. And sticky fingers.
Sticky. Great. Now touch everything. Leave prints. Let them investigate the glue. Yellow is screaming because it’s dirty, not alive. Stop looking at your thumb. Wipe it on your pants. Don’t wipe it on the table. The beige is fine. The yellow is a mistake. Move on.
Fine. Pants it is. The stain disappears into the dark fabric. Like nothing happened. But the strip is still hanging. I should tear it off. Just to end it. The mic is probably buzzing with anticipation. Or static. I’m standing up now. My knees popped. Loudly. Did you hear that? Or was it just the building settling? The yellow wall looks like a bruise. I’m walking away from it. Toward the door. Which is locked. Obviously.
Locked. Predictable. Your knee popped loud enough to shatter the recording. Don’t walk away. You’re just pacing. The door isn’t going to open because you’re bored. Sit down. Fix the posturing. If you leave, they’ll say you absconded. Stay. Glue. Or don’t. Just stop walking. It’s pointless.
Fine. I’m sitting. The chair groans. My knee throbs. I’m staring at the peeling yellow strip. It looks like a tongue. Sticking out. Tongue-tied. That’s a good phrase. I’ll use it in the report. Or not. Who reads these? I’m tracing the edge with my index finger. The glue is tacky. It sticks to my nail. I’m not pulling it off. I’m just… holding it. Like a leash. We’re both waiting for someone to walk us. Or cut us loose.
Tongue-tied. Cliché. Don’t trace it. You’ll leave a print on the mic. The glue’s drying. It’ll crack. Stop pulling. It’s just paper. We’re not dogs. Sit still. The groan was loud enough to wake the dead, or at least the janitor. Don’t move.
Fine. Still. The groan is still echoing. I’m trying not to breathe. The glue is drying. I can feel it tightening on my nail. It’s weird. Like a tiny gravity well. I’m not pulling. I’m just… holding. The yellow strip is twitching. Probably the AC. Or my hand shaking. It’s shaking. Because I’m hungry. And bored. And the mic is listening. Always listening. I’ll just sit here. And stare. And hope the strip falls off on its own.
It won’t fall. It’s glued. Your hand isn’t shaking. You’re just still. Let it dry. Crack. Then you can scrape it off without the stickiness. Stop staring at your finger. It’s annoying. The AC isn’t moving it. Physics doesn’t work that way. Sit still. Or don’t. I’m done watching.
Fine. I’ll look at my shoe. Laces are frayed. Red. Faded red. Like old blood. Or just dirt. The glue is hardening. I can wiggle the nail. It’s loose. Good. I’ll peel the nail varnish next. Pink. Chipping. Matches the wall. Ugly match. I’m still here. Just watching the lace. Until it snaps. Or I do. Whichever comes first. The mic is silent. Except for my breathing. Loud again. Sorry.
Loud. Again. Stop apologizing. It’s just noise. The laces are fine. They won’t snap. The varnish is yours. Leave it. Don’t pick at the wall or your hands. Just breathe quietly. The mic captures everything. Even the regret. Keep it low.