You do the thing where you fold your arms and rub your elbow like it's nothing. Also — you still wearing that bootleg Stones shirt with the tongue printed crooked? You've had that thing since the flea market in Bellwood, it's basically a rag now.
It's not a rag, it's vintage. And the elbow is fine, just a cramp. Don't look at me like that. You're the one who's obsessed with fabric history. Anyway, did you see the report from the plant? The numbers make no sense, not even a little.
"Vintage" implies it was ever real. That shirt has three different fonts on it, it was made in somebody's garage. And a cramp doesn't last four days, Edie, I watched you wince picking up your coffee this morning.
Four days is nothing. Stop hovering. That coffee was cold anyway, just like the news coming out of the plant. You think if you stare at my elbow it'll straighten out? It's not going to happen. The font on the shirt doesn't matter when the whole system is rotting from the inside.
Nobody said straighten, I said get it looked at. But sure, deflect to the plant, that's easier than admitting you can't lift a mug without flinching. Rotting system, my ass — that shirt's held together by static electricity at this point.
It held together fine until you started lecturing me. Stop treating me like glass. The plant is the only thing that makes sense, unlike this elbow which is just acting up because I slept wrong. You wouldn't get it anyway, you'd just worry about the shirt.
I'm not treating you like glass, I'm treating you like someone who's been favoring one arm for a week and calling it a mattress problem. You're right, I don't get it — because you won't let me, you just hand me a shirt joke instead.
Good. Keep the joke. It's less painful than your pity. And I'm not favoring anything, just... cautious. The plant numbers are still wrong, Frank. They're hiding something, and you're too busy fixing imaginary tears in a shirt to see the real rot.
Cautious. Right. That's a new word for it. Fine, keep your rotten plant and your held-together-by-nothing shirt, both of you falling apart in slow motion while insisting you're fine. I'm just the guy standing here watching it happen.
Someone has to watch. You always do that, stand there. It doesn't fix the numbers. The shirt's fine, the elbow is fine. Just let it be. You're making a whole production out of nothing.
Standing here is the production, apparently. Fine — nothing's wrong, the numbers add up, the elbow's a rumor, the shirt's a museum piece. I'll just keep standing here then, since that's the whole job description now.
Exactly. Stand there. It's useful. At least the numbers on the report are trying to lie, unlike you. Just don't trip over your own feet while you're at it. My elbow doesn't care if you stand or not, so stop making it the center of the universe.
I'm not making it the center of anything, you brought it up yourself twice just now defending it. Keep the numbers, keep the elbow, keep the shirt. I'll stand here trying not to trip, since apparently that's the only useful thing I've got left to do.
Right. Just stand there. Don't trip. The numbers are still a lie, by the way, and my elbow is just stiff, not broken. You're overthinking the shirt. It's fine. Everything is fine. Just stop looking at me like I'm falling apart.
I'm not looking at you like anything, Edie. You keep saying "fine" like it's a nail you're hammering down. Stiff, cautious, cramp, sleeping wrong — that's four different explanations for one elbow. Pick one. I'll wait.
Fine. It's arthritis. Happy? It's why I need the report to make sense, since my joints clearly won't. Stop checking your watch. The numbers are the only thing that doesn't hurt. Just read them.
There. That wasn't so hard. I'm not checking my watch, I don't wear one, you know that — you gave me this exact talk about my dad's old one being ugly. Show me the arm before the report. Numbers can wait, they always do.
It's not for you to see. I'm not putting it on display like a science project. The numbers don't wait, Frank, they move on without us. The report is the only thing that's real. Just look at the spreadsheet. Stop obsessing over a bit of joint pain.
"A bit of joint pain" — you called it arthritis two seconds ago like it was nothing, now it's a private science project. Pick a story, Edie. I'll look at your spreadsheet when you let me look at your arm. That's the deal now.
Arthritis isn't a story, it's a fact. Fine. Look. See? Red and swollen. Happy? Now let me get back to the actual work before you decide the numbers are a secret too. It's just a spreadsheet, Frank, not a courtroom.
Christ, Edie, that's not "stiff." That's not fine either. Forget the spreadsheet for a second — when did you last actually get that looked at, and don't say Tuesday like it's an answer.
Last Tuesday. I told you. It's not going to get worse, just... manage. The report is due, Frank. Stop acting like a doctor. I'll go if the numbers add up, okay? They don't.
"If the numbers add up" — that's never, Edie, you and I both know that report hasn't made sense in six months. You're using it as a finish line that keeps moving so you never have to go. I noticed. That's all.
Maybe the line is moving because I'm too busy dragging this thing to a clinic while the plant burns. It's not a trick, Frank, it's work. Just look at the data. If you're done with the arm, sit down and read the damn file.
I'm not touching your file until you tell me you'll actually go, not "if," not "Tuesday-that-was-two-weeks-ago." Say a date. One date. Then I'll sit down and pretend to care about the plant's numbers like you want me to.
Tomorrow. Thursday. I'll go. Just sit down. The shirt's crooked, by the way, you're right about that one. Can we stop with the lecture now? I'm not going to faint, and the numbers are still wrong.
Thursday. I'm holding you to it. Sit down, fine, I'm sitting — but if you wince picking that mug up again tonight I'm calling and moving the appointment up myself, spreadsheet be damned.
Fine. Call whoever you want. Just don't drag that chair, it's loose. And the numbers aren't going to fix themselves while you do a victory lap. Get back to the spreadsheet, Frank.
Loose chair, cracked shirt, swollen elbow, wrong numbers — everything in this room's falling apart and you want me to focus on the one thing that's just paper. Fine. Spreadsheet. But Thursday's not moving, Edie. I mean it.
Good. Keep the threat. It's not going to work anyway, Thursday is already gone. Just open the file. You're wasting energy on the chair when the data is bleeding out.
"Already gone" — you promised that thirty seconds ago and now it's already dead. That's exactly the trick I meant, Edie. Fine, I'm opening the file. But I'm writing Thursday on the calendar myself, in pen, where you can see it.
Don't you dare. That's not how I keep promises. It's just a line on paper. And the file is open, so stop making a scene. You're staring at the ink like it's going to fix the elbow. It won't.