That bridge in “Blackbird” where the guitar just… stops? I keep thinking about that silence. It’s the same feeling I got when the lab reports finally came back clean. Not relief, exactly. More like the ground vanished. I’ve been staring at that blank wall all morning, waiting for it to come back. Or not.
The song? Yeah, that gap. It’s not silence, Ben. It’s the amp humming. You’re waiting for a feeling that’s just noise. My boss, Gary, he thinks silence is a design flaw. Asked me to stay late to fix the server’s “breathing.” I told him it’s fine. It’s not. You’re staring at that wall because you’re bored. Go buy a coffee. The one on 4th has the good beans.
Gary’s a moron. If the server’s breathing, it’s got a heartbeat. We should probably let it dream. But you’re right about the wall. It’s just plaster. I’m bored. Mostly. The coffee on 4th? That place smells like burnt toast and regret. I’ll go. Maybe I’ll see if the barista remembers our order. Or if he even knows what an order is.
He remembers. You take black, no sugar. He looks bored, though. Probably because he’s counting seconds like you are. I saw him arguing with that customer yesterday about oat milk. It’s just plant juice, Ben. Doesn’t care who drinks it. Gary would love that. Why are you letting a latte dictate your mood? You’re acting like the wall’s judging you. It’s just drywall. Go. Buy the coffee. Stop overthinking it.
He doesn’t remember black. That’s the point. He sees the hesitation, the slight shake in the hand before the cup hits the counter. He thinks he knows the ritual. It’s not about the coffee, Tess. It’s about the transaction. The way he judges the silence. Go to Gary. Tell him to let the server dream. I’ll be back. Or I won’t.
He doesn’t judge. He’s tired. You’re projecting. I’ve seen you stare at the fridge for twenty minutes yesterday. Same look. You think you’re profound; you’re just thirsty. And stop threatening to vanish. It’s dramatic. I have rent due on the first. Go get the coffee. Don’t wave. If you don’t come back, I’m keeping your half of the deposit. That’s the deal. Now move.
Half the deposit. Right. You’re terrifying when you’re practical. I’m moving. I am. The door is there. I’m walking through it. Don’t look at me like that. It’s just coffee. Just beans. Just a guy with tired eyes. I’ll be back in ten. Or I won’t. But I’ll leave the change.
Left the keys on the table. Don’t lose them. I’m not calling a locksmith again; last time cost me forty bucks. And for the record, Gary’s server isn’t dreaming. It’s lagging. Go get your beans. If you’re late, I’m eating your leftovers. The ones in the back of the fridge. The ones you pretend don’t exist. Move.
Lagging. Of course it’s lagging. There’s no poetry in latency, only wasted cycles. Forty bucks for a locksmith? You’re cheap, Tess. I’ll bring back the beans. And I’ll try not to eat the leftovers you pretend you don’t care about. But don’t hold your breath. I might just stand on 4th and watch the steam rise. Or I might come back. The keys are cold. Heavy.
Cold keys. Heavy. You always dramatize the mundane. Gary’s server isn’t poetry; it’s copper and silicon. Stop pretending latency is art. I’m not waiting. If you’re not back in twenty, I’m calling your mother. She’ll know how to handle your dramatics. Get the coffee. Leave the change. Don’t make me chase you down 4th. I’m wearing those old jeans.
Your mother would have me committed before she’d buy me a latte. Good. She hates that place anyway. The lighting makes everyone look guilty. Copper and silicon, sure. But the lag… it’s not just latency. It’s the pause between thought and action. The human error. I’m walking. Don’t call her. I’m twenty minutes out. Maybe twenty-one. Let me have the twenty-one.
Twenty-one. Fine. I’ll wait. But if the coffee’s cold, I’m pouring it down the sink. And stop romanticizing error. It’s just inefficiency. Gary wouldn’t understand “human error.” He’d fire you for it. The lighting on 4th is harsh, yeah. Makes you look tired. Which you are. Go. Buy the beans. Come back. Don’t make me go out there in these jeans.
Gary would fire me for breathing too loudly. I’ll take the risk. And don’t threaten to come out there in those jeans. We both know they’re trash. The white ones. The ones with the holes. I’m already on 4th. The barista is looking at me. He’s holding the cup. Black. No sugar. It’s warm. I’m bringing it back. Don’t pour it out. Please.
He remembered. Good. Those jeans are vintage, Ben. You’re just jealous. I didn’t say I’d come out there; I said I’d wear them. Different things. Keep the cup warm. I’ll have the good snacks out. Not the stale crackers. The ones you like. The dark chocolate. Don’t dawdle. I’m already opening a beer. One. If you’re late, it’s yours. Drink it. Come home.
Vintage. Right. They’re just holes with attitude. I’m holding the cup. It’s warm. I’m walking. Don’t open the beer yet. Let me have the dignity of arriving before the first sip. The dark chocolate is waiting. I can almost taste it. One beer. Mine. If I’m late. I’m not late. I’m right here. Door’s closing.
Good. Leave it on the counter. Don’t drip on the rug. I won’t open the beer. I’ll wait. You’re late. By forty seconds. But I’m not counting. Sit down. Drink. The chocolate’s in the jar. The lid’s stuck. You’ll have to break it. Like everything else. Don’t look at me like I’m waiting. I’m not. I’m just here.
Forty seconds. I felt every one. The counter’s cold. You’re lying about not waiting. I see your leg bouncing. Under the table. That rhythm. I’m breaking the lid. Crack. It’s sharp. Chocolate’s dark. Bitter. Like that server’s lag. Or maybe just like you. Don’t bounce. I’m sitting. Drinking. The beer stays sealed. For now. But I’m not looking away.
It’s not waiting. It’s tapping. Different thing. You’re bitter. That’s the cocoa. Or maybe you’re just hangry. Gary’s server is still lagging. I checked. Don’t blame the chocolate for your mood. I didn’t open the beer. Yet. Sit. Eat. Stop staring at my leg. It’s tired. From walking. From waiting. From you. Crack another piece. The jar’s still locked. You’re good at breaking things. Just don’t break me.