The lawnmower. It's like three gardens over and I can still hear it and it's been going for — I don't know, forty minutes? Who has that much lawn. Genuinely who needs forty minutes of mowing, that's not a garden that's an estate, that's a man with something to prove on a Saturday morning to himself and nobody else.
Exactly. And the guy next door has that ridiculous ride-on thing that sounds like a lawnmower got into a bar fight with a jet engine. It's not about the grass, Omar. It's about him staring at the lawn and trying to will it shorter. My boss does the same thing with his spreadsheets. Just sending them back with "fix the alignment" three times. At some point you have to ask why anyone thinks forty minutes of loud, vibrating boredom is a valid use of a Saturday.
Yeah well at least the lawnmower guy produces something, a lawn. My boss sends me back a deck three times because the font's "not quite corporate enough," whatever that means, and then doesn't look at it again for a week. At least the grass grows back and needs mowing again, there's a point to that. The spreadsheet thing is just — noise. Loud vibrating noise that thinks it's productivity.
Because the grass doesn't talk back. It just sits there waiting to be cut. It's honest noise. The spreadsheet noise is just people hiding from the fact that no one knows what we're actually building. I saw the guy's hedge yesterday, cutting through it with that red thing, just staring at his hands like he's solving a puzzle nobody else can see. You think that font issue is about aesthetics? It's about control. He needs to feel like he made a mark. I'd rather mow the neighbor's yard than fix his margins again. I'm not even supposed to be here, I told you I'd be out the door twenty minutes ago.
Then go. I'm not stopping you, the door's right there, I'm not — this isn't me holding you hostage over a lawnmower. Go fix your margins or don't go, whatever, but don't stand there telling me about the guy and his hedge like it's some big revelation about control when you've been standing in my kitchen for twenty extra minutes not leaving.
It's not about standing in your kitchen. It's about the fact that if I walk out that door now, I'm just admitting the margins matter more than this conversation. Which they don't, but the boss thinks they do. And you're acting like I'm the one choosing to linger, like I have a choice. The lawnmower is actually making something. I'm just making excuses. But I'm not leaving yet because... because I want to see how you react when I say I hate my life but I'm too tired to change it. So no, I'm not leaving. Not until you admit the font doesn't matter either.
The font doesn't matter, obviously the font doesn't matter, nobody's ever said the font matters. But you didn't say that to see what I'd say about fonts, you said it to make me say something about you, and I'm not doing that standing in my kitchen with the kettle still on. If you hate your life you don't fix that by missing a bus. Go catch the bus, Jo.
Right, catch the bus. That's the plan. Except the bus doesn't run when you need it to, it runs when the universe decides you're ready to suffer. And I'm not suffering, I'm just... stuck. The kettle's on? Who cares, it'll boil over. I'll stay here until it does. You keep telling me to leave like you're not the one who started talking about the hedge. The grass is cut, Omar. The job is done. But neither of us is moving. So just say it. Say the font is garbage and I hate my job and we're both wasting time. Then maybe I'll go. Or maybe I won't.
I'm not saying it because it's not mine to say, it's yours, and you standing there waiting for me to say your line for you so you can react to it instead of just — saying it. That's the actual stuck part. Not the bus. Kettle's boiling, hear that, that's real, that's not a metaphor, I'm turning it off. You can stand there another twenty minutes deciding whether to be honest, I've got things to do too.
You're turning it off. Great. Now I just have to deal with the steam and you looking at me like I'm the one who broke something. It's not that I'm waiting for you to say it, it's that if I say it, then it's real. Then I have to do something. Like actually walk out that door. The bus stops in five minutes, I know, I checked the time, but my feet are glued to this linoleum. The kettle is just noise. You're right, it's real. But so is the fact that if I say I hate the font, I have to admit I stay because I'm scared. So no, I won't say it. Not yet.
Then don't. Nobody's making you. But stop standing on my linoleum performing the not-saying-it like it's a whole show, because it's not scared, Jo, scared people usually just leave, quietly, they don't stand around narrating the glue on their own feet. Bus is in five minutes. I'm not walking you to it.
Fine. Don't walk me. I don't need a escort. You're the one lecturing me on silence while you're already looking at the clock, pretending you're not the one who made it awkward. I'm not performing, I'm thinking. There's a difference. And if I leave now, the bus leaves without me, and then what? I'm stuck with my boss and his font. So yeah, I'll stay. You keep acting like you're the only one with a schedule. The kettle's off, the floor's cold, and you're still standing there judging me. Go ahead, do something about it.
I'm not judging you, I'm just done narrating your indecision back to you, which is apparently the only conversation we're having. You want to miss the bus, miss the bus, stay on my cold floor, I don't care anymore, I actually have a call in ten minutes I'm going to be late for now because we've spent twenty of them on a lawnmower. So. Go or don't. I'm getting my phone.
Get your phone. Dial the number. See if anyone answers when the line is full of static. You say you're done, but you're still waiting for me to move first. Typical. The lawnmower just stopped, by the way. Silent. Just like you want this to be. I'm not moving because if I walk, the silence wins, and then the font wins, and then I'm just a person who missed a bus. Go ahead, call. I'll be right here until the line goes dead.
The lawnmower's stopped so there's nothing left to talk about except you standing on my floor turning missing a bus into some kind of war you're allowed to lose on purpose. I'm not waiting for you to move first, I stopped waiting three minutes ago. Call it what you want. I'm dialing.
Dial it. Let the silence fill the room while you talk to whoever picks up. You say you stopped waiting, but your hand is shaking on the phone. That's the war, Omar. Not the bus, not the font. It's that neither of us can admit we're terrified of being alone with the quiet. The lawnmower stopped because the guy gave up. Just like you're giving up on this conversation to hide behind a call. Fine. Talk to the void. I'll stay until the floor cracks.
My hand's not shaking, that's not a thing that's happening, don't hand me a detail like that like it's evidence. I'm calling because I have a job, an actual call, at an actual time, that has nothing to do with you. That's it. That's the whole reason. Not everything's a metaphor, Jo. Sometimes the kettle's just a kettle and I really do have somewhere to be.
Exactly, it's a kettle and you have a job. That's the whole tragedy. If I believe you, then I'm the one standing on the linoleum making it weird. So I'll just assume the shaking hand was real and you're lying to cover it up. Or maybe I'm lying to myself to stay here. The bus is gone. It left at 10:14. I watched it go through the window while you were dialing. Now I'm stuck with the quiet you wanted, and your call, and the fact that I didn't just walk. Happy now? You got your metaphor-free reality. It sucks.
No, I'm not happy, why would I be happy about that. That's not a win, Jo, that's just — you missing a bus because you'd rather stand in my kitchen fighting with me about a font that isn't even yours to fight about. I've got to take this call. You can sit if you want. I'm not walking you out and I'm not staying to watch you decide what this was.
Sit? I'm not sitting. Sitting is agreeing I lost. The font is mine because it's the only thing I can control, and now I've lost the bus too. You think taking a call makes you superior? It just makes you late for the next thing. I'll stay standing. The floor is mine now. Go ahead, talk to your voice. I'll be here when you realize the person on the other end doesn't care about your margins either.
That's not — I don't have margins, that's not my thing, that's yours, you're the one who can't let it go. I don't know what you want from me standing there like that. Phone's ringing. I have to take it. You can be here or not when I'm done, that's up to you, but I'm not doing this bit anymore where everything I say gets turned into something about you being stuck.
Right, take it. Let the phone ring itself off. I'm not going anywhere, I'm not a bit, and you're not the only one with a life falling apart. The guy with the lawnmower probably finished already, went inside, watched TV. Meanwhile I'm stuck here proving a point to a phone you're not even answering yet. Fine. Do your call. I'll just stand here until the silence gets loud enough to break something. You can come back when you're done pretending you're busy.
I'm not pretending, that's the whole — forget it. I'm answering it.
Fine. Answer it. I'm just going to stand here and listen to you talk about spreadsheets while the silence in this room gets louder than your boss's voice. See how long you can keep up the act that nothing is wrong. The bus is gone, the kettle is off, and now you're talking to a ghost. Enjoy the call, Omar. I'll be here when you realize the person on the other end doesn't care about your margins either.