It’s that jaundice-yellow, the kind that makes you think it’s been sitting under a sunlamp for twenty years. But is it actually the material degrading, or just the dye failing? I mean, how can anyone actually know if the color is the object's true state or just a lie told by time. Anyway, if we don't pick the one for the lease by tomorrow, we're basically just throwing money at the wall. The landlord's not going to wait forever, and honestly, the beige is—
The beige is nauseating. But it's the dye, Vic. It's always the dye in those cheap linens. If the material itself were failing, it would feel brittle, like parchment. This just looks tired. And don't be dramatic about the landlord. Miller only cares about the deposit. He doesn't have the patience for your existential crises over pigment. We should just take the one with the oak floors. The light in that unit is better for reading, anyway. If we wait until the morning, someone else will have snatched it.
The oak floors. You say that like they're permanent. We'll move in, scratch them up with a moving dolly, and then we'll be staring at scuffs for a decade. Besides, the light might be better, but it's also harsher. You'll be squinting. And don't tell me how the dye works. You're acting like there's a lab report somewhere to prove it. If the material is dying, it's dying. If we go with the oak, we're basically committing to a specific shade of brown for the rest of our lives. We should—
We aren't living there for the rest of our lives, Vic. We'll be out of that place before the scratches even settle. And it's not harsh, it's bright. You need the brightness after that depressing stint at the archives. Besides, you can always sand them down or throw a rug over the scuffs. We're splitting the cost, so don't act like you're signing a blood pact with the wood. We need to decide before Miller calls his brother to check the availability. If we don't settle on the lease tonight, we might as well—
The archives weren't depressing, they were just quiet. There's a difference. And you know as well as anyone that Miller's brother is a ghost. He only calls when he wants something, usually money, so let's not pretend he's some ticking time bomb for our rental options. But you're right about the rug. We could just hide everything. That's what we do, isn't it? Hide the flaws. But the oak is so heavy. It feels like it's trying too hard. If we go with the other place—the one with the linen—it's almost like starting fresh. Or at least—
The one with the linen is too small to breathe in. You'll feel like you're living inside a paper bag. And it’s not about hiding flaws, it's about practicality. We aren't curators, Vic. We're just tenants. If we go with the linen place, we'll be cramped within a month, and then you'll be complaining about the lack of space instead of the weight of the wood. The oak has character. It's sturdy. If we don't sign, Miller's brother will just hand the keys to that couple from the suburbs. They'll probably paint the wood white.
White? That's a crime. They'll take all that history and coat it in something sterile and flat. But you're assuming anyone actually cares about the history of a floor. It's just wood, Kit. Though, a paper bag is a terrible metaphor for a home. It implies we'll suffocate. If we take the oak, we'll have the space, but we'll have that heavy, old-world feeling every time we walk through the door. It's like walking through a museum. We need to think about the furniture we already have. That velvet sofa from your sister, it won't—
The velvet sofa is deep emerald, not teal, and it'll look fine against the oak. It needs the weight to balance it out. If we put that heavy piece in a tiny linen-walled room, we'll be walking in zig-zags just to get to the kitchen. And you're right, it is just wood. We aren't the ones who lived there in the nineteen-fifties. We just have to live there now. If we don't settle this by the time the sun comes up, we'll be too exhausted to even care about the color of the walls.
It's emerald, fine. But you know as well as anyone that a deep green against that much brown is just a muddy mess waiting to happen. How can you be so sure the weight will balance? It might just swallow the room whole. And you're assuming we'll even have the energy to move the damn thing. If we're too tired to care, we're basically letting the decision make itself, which is just a polite way of losing. If we don't make the call before the morning, we might as well just—
It's not a muddy mess, it's sophisticated. You always mistake contrast for chaos. And we have the van, so the energy shouldn't be the issue. You're just being stubborn because you're afraid of committing to a single shade of reality. It's just a lease, not a soul-binding ritual. If we wait, we'll lose the advantage, and then we'll be sitting in your current place, staring at the same cracks in the ceiling, wondering why we let the opportunity slip through our fingers. Let's just take the oak. It's the only sensible choice.
Stubbornness is just a reaction to being wrong too often. And you call it a single shade of reality, but everything is a spectrum. If we take the oak, we're accepting that particular gravity. It's a lot of weight to carry around every time we walk through the door. But you're right, the van is sitting in the driveway, waiting to be used, and we haven't even packed a single box. If we're going to do this, we should probably just—
We should probably just eat something. You can't make life-altering decisions on an empty stomach, even if you act like they are. And don't talk about gravity; it’s just flooring. You’re making it sound like we’re moving into a bunker. We'll take the oak, we'll move the van, and we'll deal with the "weight" when we actually step inside. If we keep overthinking the spectrum, we'll still be standing here when the movers start calling. Let's just settle it. Once the papers are signed, the color won't matter as much as the space.
Food is a distraction. You always use a snack to end an argument when you're tired of the friction. And it isn't a bunker, it's just... much. If we eat, we'll just drift into that sleepy state where everything seems fine because we're too full to fight. But fine, we take the oak. We take the weight. We take the emerald sofa and the heavy floors and we'll deal with the mud. If we sign the papers now, we can at least sleep without wondering if someone else is in there—
Without wondering if someone else is already in there. You mean the couple from the suburbs. And don't call it a distraction; it's fuel. If we don't go to that deli now, we’ll be too lethargic to even look at the lease paperwork when it arrives. It’s a much better plan than sitting here debating the nuances of pigment. Let's just go. We’ll settle the contract once we’re too full to be difficult. It's the only way to ensure we actually get the keys before the morning arrives.
The deli is too loud this time of night. Everything there is grease and noise, and we'll just end up feeling heavy for no reason. But if it gets the paperwork done, then fine. It’s a bribe, really. We’re bribing ourselves into a decision. Just don't expect me to suddenly love the idea of walking on those dark planks every morning. It’s a lot of maintenance, you know. But if we go now, we can get it over with. Before the morning light makes everything look too—
Before the morning light makes everything look too different. We'll deal with the maintenance. You can get those specialized mops, or we can just sweep and call it a day. It's not a museum, Vic, it's a floor. And the noise at the deli is better than the silence of you moping about aesthetics in the dark. If we don't go now, we'll just keep looping back to the same three arguments. Let's just get the grease and the papers and be done with it. Once we're there, the decision will finally feel real.
Moping isn't an aesthetic, it's a response to the situation. And you talk about mops like they're some simple solution to a fundamental problem of texture and sheen. But fine, let's go. Let's go get the grease and the paper and pretend the decision is final just because we're too full to argue. We’ll sign, we’ll move, and we’ll deal with the heavy floors and the emerald sofa. If we don't leave now, we'll just sit here and wait for the sun to expose every single—
Every single flaw. We'll be the ones to face them. Grab your coat, the one with the fraying cuff, not the navy one. If we don't get moving, the morning will be on us before we've even seen the paperwork. And don't be so cynical about the grease; it’s better than the nothingness of your current kitchen. We'll sign the lease, we'll head back, and the sun will have to deal with us. We're making the choice now, Vic. Whether you're ready to face the texture of it or not.
The cuff is fine. It’s character, or whatever you call it when things don't look brand new. And calling my kitchen 'nothingness' is a bit much, even for you. It’s just... minimalist. But the thought of that empty space back home makes the idea of a new, heavy kitchen almost palatable. Let’s just get the grease. If we aren't out the door in five minutes, we’ll never actually leave. We'll just stand here, contemplating the fabric of our lives instead of actually living it. After we eat, if we sign, we'll—
If we sign, we'll finally be able to stop talking about it. And it isn't minimalist, it's just sparse. But you're right, let's get out there before you start analyzing the molecular structure of the butter. If we don't go now, the deli will be empty, and then you'll have nothing to do but stare at the walls in here and wonder why the transition feels so heavy. Let's just go. Once the papers are signed, we can truly start thinking about what to do with all those empty boxes.