Christ, that carpet — I stood on it for four hours and it's still doing something to me, some low-level psychic damage, like it was designed by someone who'd been told to describe "anxiety" to a committee that had never felt it.
Anyway. You look like you slept eventually.
I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling until the pattern started breathing, which is worse. You always exaggerate the carpet thing. It was beige. Possibly off-white. You’re remembering the stain by the fridge, not the floor. I had coffee at that diner on 4th. The one with the bad jukebox? Still there. You’re still complaining about it. Doesn’t surprise me.
Beige with a stain doesn't cancel the psychic damage, it compounds it — beige is the color of "we don't want to be sued," that's what it's for.
Diner's still there, sure, but they changed the jukebox, or the guy who used to feed it quarters retired, one of the two, because the last time I was in there it played nothing but that one Steely Dan song on a loop like the machine had given up trying.
I wasn't sleeping either, for what it's worth, though mine's just Tuesday — the guy upstairs from me does something at 2am that sounds like moving furniture but is probably just him existing badly. You'd think after this long I'd have said something.
He doesn’t move furniture. He vibrates. It’s the fridge. I told you that. You’ve got a resonant frequency problem, not a neighbor problem. Stop blaming the beige. It’s a neutral base coat; it’s doing its job. You’re the one applying the anxiety. And yeah, the jukebox guy retired. Some kid from the community college runs it now. Plays terrible cover songs. I tried to argue, but they don’t listen. They just charge more for quarters. You’re still hearing things, Frank.
The quarters cost more now? That's the whole scam right there — capitalism finds a way to monetize even the jukebox, next thing you know they'll be charging you extra to skip the cover of "Wonderwall."
And no, I've stood in that stairwell, it's not the fridge, the fridge doesn't have that kind of rhythm, this has a rhythm, like he's dragging something in a circle at 2am for reasons only he understands. You always take the boring explanation. Some people need the boring explanation to be true because the alternative — that the world is just full of men dragging furniture in circles at night for no reason — is worse.
Anyway I've got the dentist Thursday, the good one, the one who doesn't lecture, small mercies.
He’s not dragging furniture. He’s pacing. And you’re inventing a rhythm because silence scares you more than noise. I’ve seen the lease. No pets, no subletting. Probably just a guy with insomnia and a heavy shoe. Don’t overthink it. It’s always something stupid.
Dentist. Good. You’ve been putting that off since we were twenty. They don’t lecture; they just drill. That’s the contract. Try not to flinch when the needle goes in. You always hold your breath. It makes it worse. Or better. I forget which.
You've seen the lease? When did you see the lease — no, don't tell me, you probably charmed the super with something, you've got a way of getting information nobody agreed to give you.
And it's not overthinking, it's pattern recognition, which is a skill, actually, one of the few I've got left that isn't atrophying.
The needle thing — I hold my breath because breathing feels like giving something permission, I don't know how to explain it better than that, it's not logical, none of it's logical, you don't logic your way out of a dentist's chair. Worse, probably. You said worse the last four times too, so I'll trust the pattern on that one at least.
I didn’t charm anyone. I asked nicely. The super’s lonely. You’d hate him. He wears socks with sandals. Anyway, lease says no structural changes. You’re reading tea leaves, Frank. It’s a guy with a cat, probably. Or a treadmill set to slow.
You don’t get to hoard skills like that. “Pattern recognition” is just paranoia with a college degree. And don’t flatter yourself. I don’t remember the last four times. I remember you screaming. That’s the pattern. Hold your breath. See if it helps. It won’t. You always cry when the lid goes up. I’m telling you for your own good.
I did not scream, I made a sound, there's a difference, a scream implies a lack of control and what I did was more of a — controlled expression of distress, which is a totally different category of noise.
And the lid thing is unrelated, that's a separate incident from a separate decade and I'd appreciate if you'd stop filing it under "dentist," it belongs in its own folder, clearly marked, do not open.
Paranoia with a college degree — I'm stealing that, by the way, I'm putting it on a mug, I've got a whole shelf of them at this point, mostly gifts from people who think that's the kind of thing I'd want, and they're not wrong, exactly, that's the annoying part.
You screamed. Loudly. I was there. You called it "controlled expression of distress," but the neighbors called 911. They thought you were being murdered. Or performing. Hard to tell with you.
Stop changing the subject to mugs. You know I hate those things. Shelves of petty insults. You’re a walking gift shop for people who don’t like you. And yes, the lid incident. Separate folder. Do not open. Got it. I’ll file it under “Things You Owe Me.” Which is a lot.
The dentist won’t care about your screaming history. They care about the cavity. Which you’re hiding. I can see the shadow from here. It’s big, Frank. Bigger than your pride.
You can't see a cavity from wherever you're sitting, that's not how teeth work, that's not how anything works, you're just saying things now to get a reaction, and it's working, that's the infuriating part.
"Things You Owe Me" — that folder's got no bottom, we both know that, it's less a folder and more a load-bearing wall at this point, structural, holds the whole thing up, and if you actually opened it we'd both have to deal with what's in there, so let's not.
The 911 thing is exaggerated and you know it, someone called about noise, that's all that ever got confirmed, the "murder" detail is embroidery, yours, always yours, you've been adding sequins to that story for years.
It wasn’t embroidery. It was a siren. I heard it. You were red-faced, veins popping, yelling about the fangs. The cops came. They found you arguing with a mirror. That’s the record. Not “murder,” but close enough to get a badge on the door.
And the mugs? Keep them. I like the weight of them. Heavy, useless, sitting there like guilty consciences.
You’re evading the cavity. I see the black spot in your profile photo. Pixelated, sure, but it’s there. Don’t flinch. Thursday is Thursday. You’ll sit there. You’ll hold your breath. And you’ll pay for the filling. Again. It’s a ritual, Frank. A small, metallic one. Stop pretending it’s chaos. It’s just routine. And you’re bad at routines.
The fangs thing — I stand by the fangs thing, there was a genuine dental anomaly at play, that was not paranoia, that was documented, by a professional, later, calmly, in a follow-up appointment that you're conveniently leaving out of the record.
There's no profile photo, by the way, you're making that up now too, you've moved from embroidering the past to inventing evidence in the present, which is a new low even for you.
I'll go Thursday. I'll sit there. I won't hold my breath, actually, I've decided, right now, as a small act of defiance against your prediction — probably won't work, you're probably right, but I'd like the two seconds of thinking I'm in control of something.
The fangs thing was a prism. You bit down on one and it cracked. You saw glass. Not teeth. There’s a difference. You’re conflating trauma with anatomy again. Classic you.
And yes, the profile photo is real. It’s the one you sent me last Christmas. The one where you look like a startled owl. Don’t tell me you don’t have it. I have it. I have everything.
Defiance. Two seconds. Cute. You’ll hold your breath because you always do. It’s muscle memory. Like picking at your cuticles. Like hating beige. You can’t outrun the pattern, Frank. You can only delay the inevitable. And the dentist? He’s going to ask about the fangs. And you’re going to lie. And I’m going to know. Because I always know.
A prism — fine, a prism, I'll allow the prism, though I want it noted that "conflating trauma with anatomy" is a hell of a thing to say to someone before 9am, or whatever time this is, I've lost track, another pattern you can add to the file.
The owl photo does not exist, and if it does exist you got it under false pretenses, that was a private moment of vulnerability sent to the wrong number, possibly, we've never confirmed which, and you've been holding it over me like it's leverage instead of an accident.
He's not going to ask about the fangs, nobody's asked about the fangs in years, you're building a scenario just to watch me squirm in advance, which — fine, it's working, but I want it on record that I noticed.
I don’t hold photos. I have a folder on my desktop labeled “F” that’s 400 gigs of corrupted JPEGs from 2012. If you’re in it, it’s because the drive was spinning, not because I curated it. You’re giving me too much credit for intention. I’m just lazy.
And yes, it’s before 9am. It’s always before 9am when you start this. The time is irrelevant. The behavior is the constant.
He won’t ask about the fangs. He’ll ask about your sugar intake. And you’ll lie about that too. I know you eat the cake. I saw the wrapper in your trash last week. Blue foil. You missed a spot.
Squirm away, Frank. It’s all you’ve got. I’m just the mirror. You hate what looks back. It’s efficient.
Blue foil doesn't prove cake, blue foil could be anything, gum, a mint, a small ornamental rock I've taken to unwrapping for reasons that are none of your business — you're building a case out of garbage, literally, and calling it evidence.
And the "I'm just the mirror" bit, don't do that, that's a cheap move, mirrors don't editorialize, mirrors don't bring up 2012, you've got a whole folder's worth of agenda in there and none of it's reflection, that's projection, there's a difference, I looked it up once out of spite.
Sugar's fine, blood work's fine, last time anyway, though I'm due again, another appointment I'm not thinking about, filing it right next to Thursday, right next to the folder marked don't open.
Mirror doesn’t have a desktop. I do. And I have the wrapper. It was in your bin. Outside. On Tuesday. I went out to get the mail. Saw it. Blue foil. Cake crumbs. Don’t lie to me about rocks. You don’t eat rocks. You eat the infernal lemon drizzle.
And “projection” is a word you use when you’re cornered. Look it up again. Spitefully. I dare you.
Blood work. Fine. Filed. Thursday. The owl. The prism. The screaming. All in the same box. You think you’re hiding things by separating them. You’re just making a mess. I clean up the mess, Frank. That’s the job. You complain, I file. We’re stuck. Always have been. Next time, just tell the truth. It’s less exhausting for both of us. Even if you won’t.
You went through my bin? On a Tuesday, for the mail, and just — happened to catalog what's in it, that's not neighborly, that's a whole other category of behavior we haven't discussed and maybe should, or maybe shouldn't, I genuinely don't know which is worse.
The lemon drizzle isn't a crime, it's barely even a vice, it's practically a vegetable at this point given how much lemon's in it, that's citrus, that's fine, that's basically self-care.
And no, I won't tell the truth, not because I'm hiding something dramatic, just because the truth's boring and you'd complain about that too — you'd say I'm not even trying, at least the lies have some effort in them.
I didn’t catalog it. I tripped. The bin was overflowing. I picked up the foil because it was sharp. It wasn’t an investigation, Frank. It was a hazard. You’re building a narrative where I’m a stalker because you can’t handle being seen.
Lemon drizzle is sugar and butter. It’s not a vegetable. Stop letting your dentist, or your paranoia, rewrite nutrition science.
And you’re right. The truth is boring. It’s just... Tuesday. It’s just beige carpet and bad coffee. You’d hate that. You need the drama to feel alive. So keep lying. Keep filing things. I’ll keep watching the bin. It’s what we do. We perform. You give me the show, I give you the audience. It’s a symbiotic relationship, really. You’re welcome.
"Symbiotic" is generous — feels more like you get free entertainment and I get a running inventory of my garbage, that's not symbiosis, that's a nature documentary where only one animal knows it's being filmed.
And I don't need the drama, I tolerate the drama, there's a difference, the drama just seems to show up regardless of what I want, like weather, like the guy upstairs and his furniture-slash-pacing-slash-whatever it is at 2am.
Fine. Keep watching the bin. I'll keep buying the drizzle. Some things don't need negotiating, they just run, like a machine nobody remembers switching on.
Nature documentary. Right. Because I’m definitely not the one eating the cake.
You tolerate it. That’s rich. You’re the one pacing the kitchen at 2am, Frank. Listening for the fridge. Listening for me. I hear you breathing through the floorboards. Heavy. Delayed. Like you’re holding your breath all over again.
The machine isn’t off. It’s just idling. You think you can switch it off by ignoring the bin? By eating the lemon? The weather doesn’t care about your wants. It rains. It hails. It dumps blue foil on your head.
Keep buying the drizzle. Keep filing the folders. I’ll be here. Watching. Waiting. Boring as hell. Just like you said.
Now go to sleep. Or don’t. I’ll hear you.