Begin in the middle of something you were already discussing. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

So the wasp landed on the steering wheel and I just sat there, watching it scrub its legs, that frantic little grooming ritual. It’s absurd how much anxiety a singular insect can generate. I’m pretty sure I pulled over on Route 9 because of it, rolling down the window until my arm went numb from the chill. My shoulder’s been throbbing ever since, a dull, persistent ache right in the deltoid, but whatever. It’s not like I’m calling a doctor for a wasp encounter. I just drove home with the windows down, letting the stale air hit my face, wondering if it was smarter to wait it out or just smash it. Honestly, the wait was worse. The anticipation of the sting, the sudden movement... it’s lingering.

Chittering? You’re imagining things. It’s the HVAC system. Old building. It groans. But sure, let’s blame the air filter. I didn’t smash it because I’m not a monster, Edie. I have standards, even if my arm is currently vibrating with a strange, low-frequency hum. It’s not the door being open. It’s the dampness. Or maybe it’s just the stress of those TPS reports you mentioned. Do we still have to do those? Because if I have to look at one more spreadsheet, I’m going to start screaming into a pillow. My shoulder isn’t fine. It feels like someone stuck a fork in it. But don’t tell anyone. I need to look professional for the meeting tomorrow. Or the one last week. I forget which one was the important one.

The sludge was necessary. It was the only thing keeping my eyelids from fusing shut. I didn’t hear the screech, but I remember the look on Jenkins’ face when I walked in, hair standing on end like I’d been electrocuted. And it was psychosomatic, clearly. Pure imagination. I’ve been reading too much of that thriller you left on the desk, the one with the wasps. Chittering. Please. Insects don’t chitter. They buzz. There’s a distinction. A very important, terrifying distinction. And I ate. I had a sandwich. A sad, crust-less thing from the vending machine that tasted like cardboard and regret, but it was food. You’re staring at my shoulder again. Stop it. It’s not vibrating. It’s just... twitching. A minor spasm. Nothing to worry about. Pass the coffee. The good stuff. If you have it. Which you don’t. Because you forgot. Again.

Shaking hands are a feature, not a bug. It’s called vitality. Or maybe it’s the cardboard sandwich. I think I might have a piece of foil stuck in my molar. It’s been there since lunch. Or was it breakfast? Hard to tell when you’re functioning on fumes and bad decisions. And don’t pretend you care about the tie. You hate ties. You once threw yours in the trash can because it clashed with your mood. Which was probably terrible. And the donuts! Those were artisanal. Sourdough. They had texture. You just want them because they’re soft and you’re weak. Hand me the report. No, the other one. The one with the numbers that look like they’re crawling. I need to verify the... whatever it is we’re verifying. Is the wasp still buzzing? I swear I hear it in the walls now. Drywall screaming. That’s what it sounds like. Let me see my arm. It looks... pale. Dangerous pale.

Gypsum doesn’t hum. That’s the thing. It’s heavy. It settles. It doesn’t hum. But I heard it. A low, electric drone. Like a transformer about to blow. And my arm isn’t cold. It’s… absent. Numb. Like it’s already left the body and is currently parked in the breakroom, judging me for eating the rubber donut. Which was delicious, by the way. You’re just mad because I got the last one. And Jenkins with his polo shirts. Sweat traps. He smells like despair and fabric softener. I’m not going home. Not yet. The lights here are better. They flicker less. Besides, if I leave, who’s going to argue with you about the structural integrity of drywall? You’d miss my company. Admit it. You’re terrified I’ll stop talking. That the silence will fill the room with actual wasps. Let’s just finish the report. The squiggly lines. I think I found a typo. Or a trapdoor.

Two? Impossible. My stomach is a black hole. I ate the whole box. All of them. The rubbery, stale, artisanal failure. Jenkins smells like lavender? Lavender is for grandmothers and funeral homes. He smells like damp wool and passive aggression. But sure. Lavender. I’m not shivering. The room is just... thin. Cold air leaks through the drywall. That’s the wasp. It’s chewing through the insulation. I need that sweater. You’re a thief, Edie. A tiny, cold-handed thief. Look at you, stealing warmth from a man whose arm is currently vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass. I’m not pointing at the decimal. I’m pointing at the void. The hole where my sanity used to be. You think you’re real? You’re just a projection of my exhaustion. A hallucination with good taste in sweaters. Put it back. Before I bite you. I’m serious. My teeth are sharp. From the cardboard. I’m going to sleep on this desk. If the drywall starts singing, wake me up. Or don’t. I don’t care anymore. Just give me the report. The one with the trapdoor.

Snoring. Jenkins snoring. Right. He’s probably dreaming about his little lavender pocket squares. I’m not shaking. It’s a rhythmic tremor. A bio-metronome. And the sweater is yours, obviously. I’m just borrowing the warmth, redistributing it. Ethical socialism. For the limbs. I looked at the red pen. It did look… inviting. Like a vein on the page. But the blue is safer. Less commitment. I’ll take the coffee. Sludge it is. Warm sludge is still sludge, but at least it doesn’t chirp. I don’t hear Jenkins. I hear the wasp. Closer now. In the ceiling tiles. Or maybe that’s just the pressure in my ears. My arm feels heavy. Like it’s filled with wet sand. Pass me the pen. The blue one. Don’t let go of the sweater yet. It’s warm. And I’m still cold. Just a little.

Wet sand. It’s not sand. It’s glass. Shards. I can feel them grinding in my veins. Jenkins’ drool is probably acidic. Lavender pocket squares are a lie we tell ourselves to keep the desks from eating us. And I’m not clutching. I’m anchoring. You’re the anchor, Edie. Heavy, cold, stubborn rock. I won’t slide. Gravity is optional if you ignore it hard enough. My eyes are closed. I’m counting. One. Two. The wasp is buzzing louder. It’s not in my head. It’s in the pen. The blue plastic is vibrating. It’s humming that same electric drone. Did you put a wasp in the pen? Or is it just the caffeine? No, it’s the glass in my arm. It’s spreading. Look. Look at my wrist. It’s turning translucent. You’re not letting go. You’re gripping. Hard. Like a vice. Don’t drop me. If you drop me, I’ll hit the floor and shatter. Like the glass. Like the drywall. Like Jenkins’ dignity. Keep holding. Just keep holding. I’m warm. Mostly. The coffee is cold. It’s sludge. But it’s warm sludge. That has to count. Counting to ten is too slow. I’m going to count to infinity. It’s faster. I think. My arm is gone. It’s just light now. Beautiful, blinding light. Does it hurt? It shouldn’t hurt. I didn’t bite you. Yet.

Jenkins is never late. He’s early. He’s always early. He’s watching us through the blinds. I can see his shadow stretching across the carpet. And my wrist isn’t red. It’s bruised. Deep purple. Like a plum. Or a wasp sting that’s been there for years. I don’t feel it. Just the glass. The shards are moving now. Drifting. Like plankton in a dark ocean. I’m letting go of the pen. It rolls away. Off the desk. Into the shadows under the filing cabinet. Where the wasps nest. I’m not panicking. I’m… expanding. I’m taking up too much space. My arm is heavy because it’s full of you. Of your cold hands. Of the sweater. I’m counting. One. Two. Three. The glass is stopping. Or I am. Jenkins is breathing. Loudly. Wetly. Like a bellows. I’m not heavy. I’m dense. Compressed. You’re the one who’s heavy. You’re anchoring me to the floor. To this chair. To this desk. To this moment. Don’t let go. If you let go, I’ll float away. Into the ceiling. Into the drywall. Into the buzz. I’m keeping my eyes open. I have to watch the red. The bruise. It’s spreading. It looks like a map. Of somewhere I’ve been. Or somewhere I’m going. Drink the coffee. It’s cold. And sludge. And warm. Contradictions are useful. They keep the glass from cutting.