God, that pattern. The one at Heathrow. I swore I’d never look at it again after you left me there. Or was it you who left me? Can’t remember. My head’s still spinning from that meeting with Miller. He’s such a bore. Anyway, the carpet. Did you notice how it seemed to move? Just a little. Like it was breathing.
Miller’s a bore. Always has been. You’re mixing up airports, Ben. It wasn’t Heathrow, it was Gatwick. And I didn’t leave you there. You stumbled. Don’t pretend you remember anything clearly after that night. The carpet? It’s just wool. Frayed edges. Nothing is breathing except your anxiety. Stop looking for meaning in floor tiles. You owe me an apology, by the way. For forgetting the date.
Gatwick. Right. I can never keep the terminals straight in my head. You always were sharper with the details. I didn’t stumble. I chose to sit. And Miller... he’s not the only one who’s boring anymore. You’re avoiding the apology again. Just like you did with the date. Decades of this. I’m tired. The light in the office is awful today. Just fluorescent hum. I need a drink. You coming? Or are you going to lecture me about wool while I pour the scotch?
You chose to sit. Right. Because standing was too hard. Stop twisting it. The light is terrible. I hate it too. That’s why I’m wearing these glasses. For the glare, not just for reading. You need the drink. Probably. But don’t expect me to lecture you about wool every time you want to vanish into a glass. I’m not your keeper. I’m just here because you’re terrible at being alone. I’m coming. But I’m driving. You’re still shaking.
Driving? Since when do you drive? You always said my hands were too clumsy. And I’m not shaking. It’s the caffeine. Or the cold. It is cold, isn’t it? My office has been freezing since Tuesday. The radiator’s been broken for a month and HR won’t fix it. So there. That’s my apology for the radiator. Not the date. You know I forgot. Again. Hand me the bottle. You can drive later. When I’m less... present.
I’ve driven since the accident. Which you caused. Don’t act like I’m the only one who forgets things. You forgot the radiator, Ben. Again. It’s pathetic. And I don’t want your apology for the heating system. I want you to admit you weren’t at Gatwick. You were at Stansted. I saw your shoes. Mud from the north car park. You lied. And hand me the glass. I’m pouring. You’re useless with corks.
Stansted. You’re full of shit. It was Gatwick. Always Gatwick. I remember the smell. Wet dog and diesel. Not mud. You’re inventing this to win. As if you’ve ever won anything against me. And I’m not useless. I’m just tired of your precision. Your little records. The way you track every stain on my soul like it’s a receipt. Hand me the cork. Or don’t. I’ll use my knife. The one with the chipped handle. Just like old times. Or new ones. Who can tell.
Wet dog? Ben, you smell like stale coffee and regret. I don’t track your soul. I track the keys. Which are in my pocket. Not yours. Stop reaching for the knife. You’ll cut the table again. I won’t have you bleeding on the wood. I bought that table. You paid for the scotch. Consider that a victory. Or whatever. You’re holding the glass wrong. Twist, not crush. God, you look terrible.
Keys in your pocket. Of course. You always did like having the upper hand. I don’t need to reach for the knife. I’m just... restless. The table’s fine. Wood’s tough. Harder than me, apparently. You bought it. I paid. Is that a ledger now? We’re accounting for everything? Even the bad parts? Twist, not crush. Easy for you to say. Your hands are steady. Mine aren’t. Or maybe they are. Maybe I’m just tired of pretending they are. Drink up, Ana. Before I change my mind about the car. Or the apology.
Steady hands? You spilled wine on my dress last Christmas. Over the white one. I still have the stain. You call that steady? And don’t threaten me with the car. I drive. You navigate. Badly. The apology isn’t coming. Not from me. You’re the one who forgot. Again. Drink. The scotch is old. Like us. And we’re not accounting for anything. I just don’t want you breaking the good glass. You have a tendency to do that when you’re defensive. Pass the bottle. Your turn to pour.
Stain’s still there? Good. Let it rot the fabric. Prove you’re right. You navigate? You took us into a roundabout in Leeds. Twice. I kept my mouth shut then. Now I won’t. My turn to pour? You’ve been holding the bottle. I’m watching you. You’re pouring it on the table again. There. See? That’s what I mean. You’re frantic. Admit it. You’re scared I’m fading out. That’s why you want me to drink. To keep me here. Or to make me worse. Pass it back. Before you spill the rest.
I didn’t spill it. You’re seeing ghosts, Ben. The liquid is in the glass. Look. Really look. I’m not frantic. I’m annoyed. And Leeds was your idea. You insisted on the shortcut. Don’t rewrite history just to feel superior. I’m not scared you’re fading. I’m bored. There’s a difference. And I’m not passing it back. You’ll drop it. Again. Drink. Before I pour it down the sink. I need the glass back. You’ve held it long enough.
Bored. That’s worse than scared. At least fear means I matter. You think I’m rewriting history? I remember the shortcut. I remember you swearing. And I remember this glass. It’s thin. Too thin. You want it back? Take it. But you’re not pouring it down the sink. I’d stop you. I might actually stop you this time. Not for the bottle. For the principle. You’re holding it wrong, Ana. Your thumb is shaking. Just a little. See? You’re not steady either.
Thumb’s not shaking. It’s the cold. From the tap. You’re hallucinating again. Or just desperate. “I’d stop me.” Since when are you a threat? Since you can’t even open a bottle without cutting yourself. Give me the glass. Now. Before I snap it. Or you. I don’t care which. You want principle? Here’s yours: I keep the car. You stay. That’s the deal. Always has been. Stop posing. You’re trembling. Look at your hand. Really look. It’s shaking. Admit it.
Trembling? It’s the vibration of the fridge. You know how it hums. I see the tremor in your neck, Ana. The tie’s crooked. You’re the one holding it wrong. Leaving it open. Reckless. You want the glass? Take it. But don’t say I’m posing. I’ve posed enough. My back kills me from the chair at work. The one with the broken spring. I sit on it for hours. Enduring. That’s not posing. That’s survival. You keep the car. I’ll walk. The rain’s starting. I can hear it on the roof. Loud. Like static.
Rain? It’s dry out. Look. No drops. You’re hearing the fridge again. Or the radiator. Whatever’s broken. And don’t threaten to walk. In what? Those shoes? You’d slip in the gutter. I’m keeping the car. You’re staying. That’s not a negotiation. It’s physics. You’d freeze. Or get hit. And my tie is fine. You’re just looking for cracks. Because you’re hollow. Hand me the glass. Now. Before I take it. You’re done.
Hollow? You say that like it’s a fact. Like gravity. Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just empty because you keep pouring everything out before I can catch it. Dry? You can’t see rain when you’re looking at your own reflection in the windshield. Those shoes are fine. I wore them to the funeral. You know that. They held up. Unlike us. Hand me the glass? You’re holding it. I’m holding the door. Literally. My hand is on the frame. Breaking it. Or leaning. Hard to tell. You’re terrified of the dark, Ana. Admit it.
Funeral? You were at the pub. I saw your coat on the rack. Still damp. Don’t lie to me. And my tie is fine. You’re just looking for cracks. Because you’re hollow. Hand me the glass. Now. Before I take it. You’re done. Stop leaning on the door. It’s already broken. From your last tantrum. I told you to fix it. You didn’t. Now you’re blaming the frame. Classic Ben. Always shifting weight. Always breaking something delicate. Hand. It. Over. Or I walk out into the rain you’re hallucinating. I have a meeting at nine. And I won’t be late. Because I’m not you.
Pub. Right. The one with the flickering sign. You always notice the damp coat. Obsessive. The door isn’t broken. It’s loose. I tightened it. You just never saw. Or didn’t care. You want the glass? Take it. But don’t say I’m late. You’re the one running. Scared of nine? Scared of empty rooms? I’m not hollow. I’m just… quiet. You fill the silence with noise. Ties. Meetings. Rain that isn’t there. Hand it over. I’m tired of watching you perform. You’re not helping. You’re just watching.
Quiet. That’s what you call it. I call it neglect. You think I’m performing? I’m surviving. And the coat was dry. I checked. Twice. Stop counting my breaths. The door is loose because you tighten it wrong. Always have. And I’m not scared of nine. I’m scared of you. Of this. The static. The rain. Whatever it is. Hand me the glass. Or I’ll take it. You’re not tired. You’re just lazy. And I have a meeting. Actual work. Not this… rot. Give it here. Now.
Rot. You call three decades of this rot. I call it history. You check the coat twice because you need control. You can’t handle the variable of me. The static isn’t rain. It’s the fuse box. I told you. Three months ago. You said you’d call the electrician. You never did. So now we stand here, in the dark you insisted on ignoring. You want the glass? It’s slippery. From your sweat. Or mine. I can’t tell anymore. Take it. If you can.
Fuse box? I called him. You didn’t pay the invoice. Again. Don’t blame me for your negligence. The coat was dry. I checked. Twice. You’re lying about the static. It’s just the fridge. Or your head. Slippery? It’s your guilt. You’re sweating through the glass. Pathetic. I’m taking it. And I’m calling the electrician tomorrow. With your money. Your credit card is still in my bag. Don’t argue. You’re too tired to fight. Drink. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just stop moving. You’re making me dizzy.
Credit card in your bag. Of course you have it. You always keep my lifelines close. Just in case I try to drift. Three months. I forgot. It wasn’t negligence. It was forgetting. There’s a difference. You’re making me dizzy? No. It’s the room. Spinning. Like the carpet at Gatwick. Stansted. Whatever. You want the glass. Take it. But don’t pretend you’re in control. You’re holding your breath. I can hear it. Sharp. Desperate. Drink. Or don’t. I’m done fighting the current. Let it pull. I’m tired of swimming.
I’m not holding my breath. You’re imagining things. The room isn’t spinning. It’s you. Drifting. Again. You forgot the invoice. That’s negligence. Don’t dress it up as forgetfulness to feel better. I have your card because you lose everything else. Keys. Pens. Minds. Take the glass. Or don’t. I’m drinking. Alone if I have to. You’re done fighting? Good. Rest. But don’t you dare say I’m not in control. I am. I always am. You’re just the baggage I carry. And I’m tired of your heavy silence. Drink.