You never write on the last page. Every single notebook, going back to that grid-paper one you had in Utrecht — there's always a blank sheet at the back like you're saving it for something. What. What are you saving it for, Ben. It's a notebook, it's four euros, you're not going to run out of paper and regret using the last page on a grocery list.
Utrecht. You remember that far back? It was cheap paper, really. The grid bled through. I kept finding the blank page, though. A white wall. It felt... heavy. Like if I filled it, the thing I was holding would become finished. Real. And I hate finished things. They’re dead. This one? The one from the hardware store, the one with the spine that won’t stay shut? No. It’s just a placeholder. For the moment I decide I’m done. But I’m not. I’m just tired. Which is different. You wouldn’t understand the difference. You write like you’re trying to outrun the ink.
I remember the grid bleeding through because you complained about it for a week straight, not because I've got some tender archive of your notebooks. Don't do that — don't turn "I keep a blank page because I'm scared of finishing things" into me not understanding you. That's not depth, that's just avoidance with a metaphor stapled on.
And I don't write like I'm outrunning anything. I write fast because the pen's cheap and I lose them constantly — three this year, actual count, not exaggerating. That's logistics, not psychology. You're the one turning a spiral notebook into a coffin.
Three pens. Jesus. You’re a hoarder of cheap plastic. I didn’t say it was avoidance. I said it felt heavy. There’s a difference. You always flatten everything. It’s a reflex. At work, sure, I sign off on spreadsheets that are dead before they hit my desk, but this? This is just... a buffer. A breath. If I fill the last page, the book closes. And I don’t want to close it. Not yet. You think because you buy the cheapest pen you’re living fast. You’re just cheap. And tired of replacing them. I’m not turning it into a coffin, Pia. I’m leaving the window open. There’s a draft in here anyway. Do you feel it? Or do you just keep writing until you break the nib?
I don't break nibs, I lose the whole pen, that's the point — I told you, three this year. And I'm not cheap, I buy the ninety-cent ones on purpose because I don't want one good pen I'm precious about. That's a choice, not a character flaw.
There's no draft. It's August, the window's shut, you're inventing weather to avoid answering. You said buffer, you said breath, now it's a window — you keep renaming the same blank page so nobody can pin down what you're actually protecting.
I don't flatten things. I just don't let people build a cathedral out of four euros of grid paper and call it fragile. Fill the page or don't. But stop asking me to feel a draft that isn't there.
August. Right. The heat makes the ink run, anyway. You’re missing the point. It’s not about the weather. It’s about the weight. When I look at that last page, I don’t see paper. I see the end of the thought process. I see the moment I have to stop being Ben and start being the guy who answers emails about the supply chain. That’s the draft. The cold air of reality rushing in when the fiction ends. You think I’m avoiding a metaphor. I’m avoiding the shift change. You lose pens; I lose hours. Not the same thing. And for the record, I don’t build cathedrals. I just... leave the door unlocked. So I can step out if I need to. You’d slam it shut in a heartbeat.
I wouldn't slam it, I'd just walk through it, which apparently is the part you can't stand. There's a difference between shutting a door and actually using one.
And don't tell me what I'd do with a heartbeat like you've clocked it. You lose hours, fine, name one. Not "the supply chain guy," an actual hour, what happened in it, what got decided. Because right now it's just as vague as the window and the weight and the draft — you're stacking metaphors so nobody has to ask you what page fourteen actually says.
I fill the page because it's paper. You leave it blank because filling it would mean admitting you already know how the sentence ends.
Page fourteen. You think I’m hiding a novel in there? It’s a list of names. People I owe five euros to. Or six. I forget. It’s messy. I haven’t written it down because if I do, I have to pay them. If it’s just in my head, it’s theoretical debt. Fictional. Harmless. You want me to admit I know how it ends? I don’t. That’s the whole point. If I knew, I’d write it. The blank page is the only place where I might still be rich. You walk through doors because you don’t care about the hinges breaking. I’m afraid of the squeak. The noise. The attention. Page fourteen is quiet. For now.
Six people you owe five euros to and you can't remember which — that's not fictional debt, Ben, that's just bad bookkeeping dressed up as philosophy. Write the list, pay Marek or whoever, stop turning loose change into a metaphysics.
And the squeak thing — you've said that about three different doors now, the window, the shift change, the hinges. I'm starting to think the noise you're actually afraid of isn't a page or a debt, it's somebody asking you a direct question and you having to answer it in one sentence instead of four.
I'm not asking about hinges. I'm asking what's on page fourteen in actual ink, actual names, actual numbers. You keep handing me weather instead.
Page fourteen is blank. That’s the answer. You want ink? Go buy your own notebook. I didn’t say it was blank before, did I? I said it was heavy. Different thing. You’re pressing so hard you’re wearing through the paper in your mind. Marek doesn’t care about my metaphysics. He cares that I owe him five euros. Fine. I’ll text him tomorrow. But don’t pretend you’re helping. You’re just scavenging for details to prove I’m broken. I’m not broken, Pia. I’m... paused. There’s a difference. You wouldn’t know pause. You’re all forward momentum. Crash, burn, repeat. I’m just looking for the off-ramp. The quiet spot. Page fourteen is empty because I haven’t decided if it’s worth the noise. Now, are we done? I have to go. The shift starts in twenty minutes. And no, it’s not the supply chain. It’s the register. I count cash. It’s safer than names.
Register. Right. Five euros to Marek and you count other people's money for a living — there's a joke in there somewhere but I'll leave it.
Twenty minutes, so go, count the cash, don't be the guy who's short at close because he was busy explaining why a blank page is safer than a name. I'm not scavenging. I asked one question and you built a fire escape out of it.
Text Marek before your shift, not after. You'll forget by tonight, you always do — that's not a metaphor, that's just how you are with small debts. Go.
Texting Marek now. Fine. Done. Sent. There. Happy? You think that solves it. It doesn’t. It just moves the problem from paper to email. Which is worse. Now it’s permanent. Now you can screenshot it. But sure. I’m “fixed.” The cash register is a cage, you say. Maybe. But it’s predictable. I count the bills. They add up. People don’t add up. Marek adds up. I’m short in thirty minutes because I was arguing with you about hinges instead of counting the till. That’s on me. Or is it? You pushed. I stopped. I forgot. You’re the one who made me stop. Don’t act like you’re the responsible one here. You’re just loud. Go count your three lost pens.
I didn't make you stop, you had a phone in your hand the whole time — texting Marek takes eleven seconds, not thirty minutes. If you're short at close it's because you spent the twenty minutes arguing about hinges instead of walking to the register, and that's yours, not mine.
And I'm not loud, I just don't let you get away with calling five euros an existential position. Go count your till. Come up short if you're going to, but don't hand me the receipt for it.
Eleven seconds. Sure. Because you don’t get distracted by the silence between the keys. I texted him. It’s done. The till is in the back. I can hear the hum of the cooler. It’s louder than you are, actually. Consistent. Predictable. You want me to be short? Fine. I’ll be short. I’ll admit it to the manager. He’ll deduct it. It’ll hurt, but it’ll be real. Unlike this. This is just noise. You think you’re holding me accountable. You’re just watching me trip. It’s entertaining, is it? The anticipation of the stumble. I’m going to count the cash now. And if I’m missing five euros, it’s because I spent it on Marek. Or because I spent it on this conversation. Either way, the numbers won’t lie. Unlike you. You’re all interpretation. I’m just arithmetic. Boring. Safe. Finally.
I didn't lie about anything, I told you to text him and go — that's not interpretation, that's a sentence with a verb in it. If you come up short it's arithmetic, fine, you said it yourself, numbers don't lie, so don't dress the shortfall up as something I did to you.
Go count it. Come back or don't. But don't hand me "boring, safe, finally" like it's an answer to something, it's just you closing a door you keep insisting I'd slam. You walked through it yourself, just now, mid-sentence.
I didn’t close a door. I walked through it. You’re projecting again. You think every action is a defensive maneuver. It’s not. It’s just Tuesday. I’m counting the till. There are twelve twenties. Three fifties. The drawer sticks on the left. Always has. I push it down with my knuckle. Hard. It clicks. I’m not dressed in anything, Pia. I’m just standing there. With money. And the smell of old coffee. You want me to admit I’m afraid? I’m not. I’m bored. And you’re tired of being the only one moving. That’s the friction. Not the page. Not the pen. Just... two people in a room, waiting for the other to blink. I’m not blinking. I’m counting. Five, ten, fifteen... God, this is dull. Are you happy now? You got your verb. Your action. I’m doing it. Alone.
Twelve twenties, three fifties — that's three hundred and ninety, not counting whatever's in ones, and you called it dull like you weren't just handing me actual numbers for once instead of weather. See, that wasn't hard.
I'm not tired of moving, I'm tired of you narrating "alone" like it's a punchline aimed at me. Nobody said stand there with me. Count the drawer, knuckle the stick, go home. I'll still be here being loud tomorrow whether you blink or not.
Three ninety. Right. Plus the singles. Maybe ten. Maybe twenty. I haven’t checked the singles yet. The drawer’s still sticking. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? The arithmetic. The precision. You think if I give you enough digits, you can measure me. You can’t. Three ninety is just paper. It doesn’t make me solid. And I didn’t say you’d be gone. I said I’d be alone. Big difference. You’re here. Loud. Annoying. Present. But you’re not with me. You’re observing. Like a scientist watching a specimen in a jar. I’m not a specimen, Pia. I’m a guy counting cash because he’s afraid of what happens when he stops counting. And yeah, you’ll be here tomorrow. Still loud. Still pushing. I’ll be here too. Counting. Waiting for the drawer to click. Or not. See? That’s the draft. That’s the uncertainty. You can’t quantify that. Go on. Tell me I’m wrong. I dare you.
You're not wrong that three ninety is just paper — it was never supposed to be more than that, you're the one who keeps asking numbers to hold weight they can't carry. I asked what's in the till, you told me. That's not measuring you, that's you finally answering a question with a fact in it.
And I'm not watching you through glass. I don't own a jar. If I wanted a specimen I'd have picked something that talks less and counts faster. You're not afraid of stopping counting — you're afraid of what you'd say if you weren't holding a drawer knuckle-down while you said it. Finish the singles. Tell me the real number. Not the maybe-ten-maybe-twenty. The actual one.
Maybe. I said maybe. You want exact? You want me to peel back the stuck bottom? Fine. I’m doing it now. It’s stuck. Hard. I have to use a key. The register key. It’s heavy. Brass. Cold. I’m turning it. The mechanism is grinding. I hate that sound. It sounds like teeth. I’m pulling the tray. There are four ones. And two quarters. And a soda tab. I hate soda tabs. They get stuck in the seam. Total: three hundred and ninety-three fifty. There. Exact. Real. Heavy. Does it make me feel better? No. It just makes me feel poor. And tired. You got your number. Now what? Are you satisfied? Or do you want me to count the soda tab too? Because I’m not going to. Some things are just trash. You know that. Don’t pretend you don’t.