Open with a strange but sincere question. Push off from this if it helps: roundabouts.

Oh, they work. The geometry forces you to slow down, which is the whole point. But the superior attitude? That’s real. I saw a guy in Bristol earlier, looking at his watch like he was being held hostage by a merry-go-round. He looked furious. He’s probably right, in a way. It’s chaos with a yield sign. I missed my turn twice last week. Twice. I just circled the block, pretending I was looking for a parking spot I didn’t need, while the Germans behind me sighed in unison. Efficient. Cold. Beautiful.

Live there. Or try to. The rental car had that one wheel that wobbled like a nervous dog. I hate that. Makes you feel unstable, like you’re about to tip over. Bristol is… loud. Too many coffee shops. I’m just trying to get to the bank. The one on the corner that smells like wet wool and old money. You wouldn’t like it. It’s grey. Always grey. Even when the sun is out, it’s just a pale, apologetic sort of light. Like it forgot its coat.

Mid-yawn suits you. Less pressure. At least my bank pretends to care about the wool. Mine looks like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the landlord to figure out if we’re worth the heating bill. I went there Tuesday. The teller had a stain on her sleeve that looked suspiciously like ketchup. Or maybe rust. I didn’t ask. You don’t ask about the stains. You just hand over the envelope and hope she doesn’t notice your hands are shaking. Which they weren’t. Mostly. Just a little tremor. From the wobble. Definitely the wobble.

bills. Just bills. The kind that accumulate like dust on a window you’re too tired to clean. I didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want to hear it. The stain was probably ink. Or coffee. It doesn’t matter. The point is, I felt seen. Briefly. Then I was just another number in the queue. Behind me, some bloke was arguing about a overdraft fee like it was a personal insult to his lineage. I zoned out. Watched the dust motes dancing in that pale, apologetic light. Decided to walk home. The wobble got worse. Or maybe I just stopped caring. Same thing, really.

God, you’re sharp. It’s annoying. I didn’t walk home to avoid the bank. I walked because the air smells like rain and wet dog, which is better than the smell of fear and stale coffee. The wheel wobbled. That’s a fact. I’m not a poet. I’m just a guy who hates waiting in line. And maybe, just maybe, I liked the idea of being late. Being late is a form of rebellion. Small, stupid, but rebellious. Don’t read too much into it. I’m not hiding anything. Except the fact that I’m wearing mismatched socks. One is blue. One is black. I didn’t notice until I was three blocks away. Classic.

Respectable is exactly the problem. I hate being respectable. It feels like wearing a suit to a funeral you didn’t attend. The blue sock has a hole in the toe. I could feel the cold pavement through it. Felt alive. More than the bank ever did. I didn’t even buy coffee. Just walked. Past the guy who looked like he was being held hostage by a roundabout. He was probably right. I’m just glad I missed the turn. If I’d turned, I’d have to pay. And paying is admitting you were ever there in the first place. Which I wasn’t. Definitely not. Just walking. In the rain. With a wobbly wheel. And a hole in my foot. Perfect.

It’s parked. Down the street. Behind the bin that smells like regret. The car didn’t follow me. It doesn’t have legs. Mostly. Though sometimes, when I’m tired, I swear I see the headlights blink when no one’s there. Paranoia. Or maybe just the wobble talking. I left it running for a minute. Then I turned it off. The key is in my pocket. Cold. Heavy. Like the envelope. But lighter. Much lighter. I didn’t bring the bills home. I left them on the counter. Next to the ketchup stain. Or the rust. It doesn’t matter. They’re just paper now. Let the teller keep them. Let her drown in them.

She didn’t say anything. Just stared. Her eyes went wide, then flat. Like a switch flipped. She picked up the envelope, looked at me, and just… nodded. One quick dip of the chin. Then she turned away. I walked out. Didn’t look back. Maybe she thinks it’s a tip. Maybe she thinks it’s trash. Either way, I’m free. The wobble is still there. In the street. In the car. In my head. I don’t care. Let them blame the wheel. Let them blame the socks. I’m just a ghost in a blue sock. Haunting a bank. With no money. Perfect.

Maybe. Or maybe she’s just bored. Banks are mausoleums for optimism. She’s probably on the phone right now, whispering to security about the guy who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. I like that. I like being the inconvenience. The glitch. Let her call. Let them come. I’ll be gone. Or maybe I’ll just sit on the curb and wait for the rain to wash the ink off my hands. The hole in the sock is getting bigger. Cold air getting in. Feels honest. At least the truth is cold. Bills are just warm lies. I prefer the chill.

I can’t. The pavement is cold. My foot is cold. It anchors me. If I stand up, I might float away. Or start walking home, which is worse. Home is quiet. Too quiet. The walls listen. Here, the rain shouts. Let her call. Let them come with their clipboards and their pity. I’ll give them a show. The sock will fall off. They’ll laugh. Good. Laughter is honest. Better than the nod. Better than the envelope. I’m not running. I’m just… lingering. Like dust. Like rust. Like a bad decision that refuses to be corrected.

Fine. You win. The pavement was cold, but my dignity was colder. I stood up. The sock stayed. Good. Let it be a marker. A blue flag of surrender. I walked home. The car is still there. The wobble is still there. I didn’t look back. The walls are listening, you said. Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re judging my sock choice. Or maybe they’re just waiting for me to explain why I left the bills. I didn’t. I made tea. Burnt the bag. Tasted like ash. Better than the bank. At least ash doesn’t ask for interest. I’ll sleep. Or try to. The wobble will keep me company. It’s a good listener. Quiet. Consistent. Unlike you. Always pushing.