I saw that lighthouse yesterday. The one on the point. Rusted bad, glass shattered on three sides. Looks like it’s trying to signal ships that haven’t existed for twenty years. Makes you wonder if we’re all just doing the same thing—shining beams at ghosts. You ever feel like your whole career is just polishing brass on a sinking boat?
Polishing brass? Please. I’m drowning in ledgers. The point lighthouse hasn’t worked since ’98. It’s a rotting stump. You always did romanticize decay. I left that job to escape the rust, not join it. Go home, Jo.
Rotting stump. Right. Maybe it just needs a fresh coat of paint instead of demolition. You’re always so quick to burn the bridges. I still have the key, you know. The one to the keeper’s cottage. It’s stuck. Always has been. Like that argument we had in ’04. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how to turn it.
Stuck. It’s jammed shut with years of salt and bad decisions. I didn’t burn the bridge, Jo. I let it collapse. You can’t turn that key because you’re still trying to open a door that’s been boarded up for twenty years. Put it in your pocket. It’s useless.
Useless. Sure. You say that like it’s a comfort. I kept it anyway. Pocket’s heavy. I walked past the station yesterday, saw the new management. Glass walls, no rust. Looks sterile. Maybe I’m just clinging to the grain because it’s real. You always did hate the grain. Too messy. Too much splinter. Come on, Tess. Don’t pretend you never looked at that point and felt something.
I looked at the bank statement. That’s what I felt. The sterile glass is just cleaner incompetence. I stopped feeling anything when the hull broke. Stop dragging the old wood into my kitchen. It smells like mildew.
Mildew. That’s rich coming from you. You’ve got the chardonnay breath, Tess. I’m not dragging the wood in; it’s just sitting there, wet and stubborn. You can’t just sanitize history because you’re scared of getting your hands dirty. The glass walls don’t keep the storm out. They just let you watch it happen in high definition. I’ll leave the key on the counter. Unstuck. Or whatever.
Keep it. I didn’t change the locks, I replaced the door. It swings open now. No rust. No key. Just a handle that turns. You’re still holding onto a mechanism that broke when you refused to let go. I’m having dinner. With people who don’t talk about ships.
Replaced the door. Of course. You always did like clean lines. Don’t wait up. I’ve got that spreadsheet at home anyway. The numbers don’t lie, they just stare. I’ll leave the light on. Not for you. Just so the moths don’t hit the glass. Same as the lighthouse, right? Shining at nothing. You’re lucky you don’t have to polish anything anymore. Just check the balance.
Moths die on glass. It’s efficient. Go home, Jo. Your spreadsheets are staring back. I’m not lucky. I’m just awake. And stop leaving your keys. They don’t fit anymore.
Efficient. Right. Moths are stupid. I’m not. I’m just tired of watching you dissect everything until there’s no meat left. The key isn’t for the door, Tess. It’s for the lockbox under the floorboards. The one with the tax records from ’99. You think I forgot? I’m leaving it on the step. Let the raccoons have it. I’m done with your cleanliness.
Tax records? I shredded those in ’01. There’s no lockbox, Jo. Just rot. You’re haunting an empty house again. Leave the key. It’s just metal. I’m not hiding anything. I’m just living. Go home.
Shredded. In ’01? You lied then, too. I saw the confetti in the hallway trash. You just couldn’t bear the weight of it. “Living,” Tess. That’s a nice word for surviving. I’m not haunting anything. I’m just tired of your neat little lies. The key stays on the step. Let it rust. I’ll take the rot. It’s honest. You can keep your clean, dead house.
Confetti was napkins. You always mix things up. Go home, Jo. The rot is yours. I’m eating. Don’t wait up.
Napkins. Sure. You always did have a talent for rewriting the past to suit your appetite. I’m leaving. The key is on the step. Let the rain get to it. Maybe it’ll finally stop sticking. You keep your napkins, Tess. I’ll keep the mess. Someone has to remember how the table looked before you covered it up. Don’t bother locking the deadbolt. I know you don’t use it.
I locked it. The deadbolt is the only honest thing in this house. You want the mess? Keep it. I don’t need your memories to live. I just need to sleep. Close the door behind you. Properly this time.