Open with a reference neither of you explains. Push off from this if it helps: escalators.

God, yes. I walked past the one at the station this morning. You know the drill. Half the steps are empty, clogging up the right side for people who actually want to move, while the rest of us just… stand there. It’s like a social contract written in invisible ink. I felt that prickling guilt, that specific brand of urban shame, wondering if I should shuffle left. But then I remembered how much my left knee hates the stairs, and the guilt evaporated. Honestly, the escalator is the only place where we’ve collectively agreed to be lazy in public without getting shouted at. It’s efficient, in a way. We’re all just being carried away by the machine, pretending we’re in a hurry. Though I swear the speed increases slightly when you’re standing still on the right. It’s a psychological trick. Or maybe I’m just imagining it because I’m standing on the right.

Oh, shut up. You think you’re so observant, Sam. The door hinge noise in your shoulder is a tragedy, not a feature. I’ll have you know my left knee has been a traitor since the great ski trip of ’98, and it doesn’t need your commentary on its demise. And I’m not anxious. I’m alert. There’s a difference. You’re the one seething at the walkers. I just stand there, allowing the machinery to do the heavy lifting, while you’re out there plotting their murders with your eyes. It’s exhausting, being around you. Besides, I saw you take the left yesterday. Don’t lie to me. You tried to sprint past me to get to the top, and you nearly took out a tourist with your bag. Passive-aggressive? Please. You’re just angry because the escalator doesn’t care about your internal monologue. It’s just steps. Cold, metal steps. And you’re standing on the right, judging everyone. Again.

A witness? To what? To my dignity crumbling into dust? You’re twisting words now, Sam. Classic deflection. And that pole incident was a negotiation, not a lie. I was establishing a new pricing model for durability. The shopkeeper was clearly overcharging for aluminum. But let’s not pretend your train sprint was heroic. You were puffing like a steam engine. And yes, the tourist was an idiot. Standing still on a moving walkway is basically begging to be a projectile. I tried to warn him. You know I did. I shouted, "Move it!" right in his ear. He didn’t even flinch. Just kept photographing the plasterwork. It’s disturbing how many people think gravity is a suggestion. Your shoulder’s the real tragedy here, by the way. You wince every time you reach for a high shelf, pretending it’s just stiffness. It’s not. It’s the ghost of that time you tried to hang a heavy tapestry without asking for help. Remember? You dropped it on your foot. We still haven’t replaced the rug.

Attempted homicide is a strong charge, Sam. I was adjusting the stability. You were wobbling. It was a safety intervention. And don’t act like you’re weather-sensitive. You’re dramatic. There’s a difference. Most people just ache; you scream internally at the barometric pressure. As for the tourist, good. Let him keep his plaster. It’s better than having to engage with his aura of obliviousness. I don’t mind being unbothered. It’s a skill. You’d be surprised how much peace you save by just letting the escalator carry you while the idiots scramble past. I watched him. He looked smug. Like he’d conquered the ceiling. He hadn’t. He’d just been standing there, a target waiting for physics to do its job. And I was ready to catch him. Or not. It’s a delicate balance. You’d ruin it by shouting. “Watch out!” I said. He didn’t listen. That’s on him. Not on my alleged attempt on his life via ladder instability. You’re really clinging to that rug story. It’s been twenty years. Let the rug go.

Eloped? In the stairwell? With our knees and shoulders arguing? You make it sound like a romance novel, which is frankly worse. And that tea was Earl Grey, not just tea. It was delicate. You know how fragile porcelain is. I wasn’t reaching; I was gesturing to emphasize the point about your ladder-wobbling. It’s called body language, Sam. You wouldn’t know it if it bit you. And the rug stays. It’s a memorial. A bright, cheerful memorial to your lack of spatial awareness. If the others think we eloped, let them. It’s a better story than us standing here debating the moral implications of escalator etiquette. Besides, if we don’t go down, who’s going to explain to Sarah why you’re favoring your right side again? She thinks you’re hiding a second shoulder. Let’s go. Before the tourist comes back down. I want to see if he’s developed a conscience or just more plaster dust. It’ll be entertaining. Or depressing. Probably both.

Sarah thinks you’re hiding a second shoulder because you refuse to let go of the door handle every time you leave a room. It’s not a theory; it’s a diagnosis. And don’t threaten me with the stairs. I know how your shoulder goes when you try to compensate for a lack of momentum. You’ll be hunching like a gargoyle by the time we hit the ground floor. The tourist isn’t coming down. He’s probably still up there, chasing a light fixture like it owes him money. Let him have his plaster. We have a wedding to bomb, technically. Though mostly just to eat the cakes. And if you take the stairs, I’m walking on the left. On purpose. I’ll be loud. I’ll be deliberate. I’ll be the person you’re trying to outrun. It’s your principle, Sam. Don’t blame me when your rotator cuff files for divorce. Move. The escalator is waiting, and it has no patience for your martyrdom.

Marzipan is the devil’s almond paste, Sam. If they dare put that sticky, sweet curse on a sponge again, I will stand on the table and deliver a eulogy so scathing the bride will reconsider her life choices. And I’m moving first? Please. I’m leading. There’s a distinction. You’re trailing, doomed to watch my back as I navigate the treacherous terrain of public transport and familial expectations. I’ve already taken three steps. The belt is moving. Don’t make me wait. You’re hesitating. Is it the knee? Or is it the terror of being carried by a machine you don’t trust? I bet it’s the machine. You hate things that move without asking. It’s why you still drive the old Volvo. Come on. Stop psyching yourself out. The left side is mine. The right is yours. Don’t cross over. I will know. I always know. Step up. Before I change my mind and let you take the stairs. Just to see you whine about it later.

My head is turned backward to monitor your deteriorating posture, Sam. It’s a public service. And the Volvo runs fine because it’s built like a tank, not because it’s trying to keep up with your frantic internal calendar. You’re sweating. I can see it on your forehead. That’s the fear of the unknown, or maybe just the marzipan premonition. I’m not tripping. I’m strutting. There’s a difference. And if I trip, it’ll be because you finally admitted the escalator is faster than the plan. Which, statistically, it always is. You’re gripping the handrail like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away into the ether. Relax. The machine has a schedule. It doesn’t care about your plan. It cares about friction and gravity. And right now, you’re generating more friction than the motor. Stop clenching. Your shoulder will lodge itself in the ceiling tiles if you keep this up. I’m not turning all the way around. I’m just… observing. Critiquing. Lovingly, from a safe distance. Keep walking. Or standing. Whatever you call this inefficient locomotion.

Operate? You think you’re the operator? Please. You’re a passenger. A very stiff, very opinionated passenger. The ventilation is terrible because someone decided a “rustic barn” aesthetic meant “suffocating oven,” and no amount of complaining will change the fact that the air smells like wet hay and desperation. And don’t talk to me about groundedness. You’re vibrating. I can feel it through the floorboards. It’s not the belt; it’s the fear of the marzipan. I see it in your eyes. The terror of nutty, sticky betrayal. I’m not going to strut off into a bridesmaid. I have excellent spatial awareness. Unlike you, who once tried to hug a tree because it looked lonely. That was years ago. Let it go. We’re at the top. One more step. Don’t freeze. If you freeze, I’m leaving you here. With the flowers. And the bad air. And the tourists. Go. Move. Before I change my mind and let you explain your shoulder to Sarah. Again.

Intervention? You were hugging a cedar, Sam. You got sap in your hair for a week. And don’t pretend you’re dignified. You stepped off that escalator like you were disarming a bomb. Which, considering your grip strength, you probably were. I saw you. You’re not vibrating. You’re trembling. It’s a fine line. And I’m not looking for Sarah. I’m looking for the cake. If it has marzipan, I’m eating three slices just to spite the baker. It’s a moral imperative. Besides, if I start a search party with the caterers, who’s going to stop them from bringing out the shrimp cocktail? I know you hate the shrimp cocktail. It’s your kryptonite. So go find Sarah. I’ll be here, judging the floral arrangements and waiting for the sugary evidence to arrive. Don’t keep me waiting. My knee is already predicting rain, and I have no patience for wet weather or wet shrimps. Find her. Now. Before I start reciting poetry about the evils of almond paste. I’m not joking. I wrote a sonnet. It’s bad. You’ll hate it.

Insult to shrimp? Please. You’re just sour because you can’t handle the texture. It’s gelatin, Sam. It’s supposed to jiggle. That’s the point. You’re fighting the architecture of the appetizer. But fine. Let’s agree to disagree over the fate of the crustacean. And I won’t recite the sonnet. Yet. But don’t think I didn’t notice you checking your watch. You’re anxious again. The cake is coming, but your anxiety is already there. Waiting. Judging. Like a silent, disapproving uncle. I’ll save the poem for the right moment. Maybe when the groom tries to cut the marzipan with a serrated knife. It’ll be perfect. Tragic. Poetic. You’ll hate it. Good. Now go. Find Sarah. Tell her we’re alive. Tell her we didn’t elope in the plumbing. Tell her we’re just… gathering evidence. Against the pastry chefs. It’s a serious matter, Sam. Serious. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not laughing. (I am). Go. Before I start humming the wedding march backwards. It’s eerie. And you hate eerie.

Hostile escalator? You’re rewriting history, Sam. The escalator was neutral. You were the one fighting the current of your own insecurity. And groomsman? Please. You’re standing there looking like a confused waiter who lost his tray. You’re not a groomsman; you’re a prop. A very stiff, very opinionated prop. But fine. Let’s go with the shrimp crisis. It’s more interesting than “we were late.” Sarah will love it. She thrives on chaos. And don’t threaten me with the florist. She’s already suspicious of my tie. She thinks I’m trying to strangle the bouquet. Which, honestly, is a valid concern given my grip strength. I won’t hum. I’ll just stare. Intently. At the ceiling. Like the tourist. Maybe we’ll inspire him. Go. Before I change my mind and wear the red socks. The ones with the little pineapples. They’re in my bag. I haven’t decided. Don’t push me. I’m fragile. Like a marzipan sponge. Now move. The ceremony is starting. And if you’re late, I’m blaming the escalator. Again. It’s the easiest lie. And you know it.

Second tourist? Please. I have presence. You have panic. And I’m not standing in the doorway; I’m leaning. There’s a structural integrity to leaning that you wouldn’t understand. You’re always rushing, Sam. Always checking the clock, always checking the shoulder, always checking the cake. It’s exhausting. But fine. I’ll sit. I’ll stare at the ceiling. I’ll admire the plasterwork like a civilized person. Unlike you, who is currently sprinting toward Sarah like a man fleeing a crime scene. Which, technically, we are. The crime is bad taste in appetizers. And the pineapple socks stay in the bag. For now. But I have a feeling you’ll need the comfort. When the marzipan hits. It always does. I’ll be right here. Waiting. Watching. Judging. The sonnet is safe. For now. But if you’re late… well. Let’s not test me. Go. Before I decide to wear the socks anyway. Just to see you hyperventilate. It would be entertaining. And we could use some entertainment. The ceremony is about to start. And you’re still talking. Move.