Marc
I was telling my therapist—no, forget it. He’s useless anyway. Anyway, the deep end. Not the metaphorical one, obviously. The literal one at the pool where the kids drown. I saw a kid go under last week. Didn’t even struggle. Just... gone.
Start a sentence you don't finish. Push off from this if it helps: the deep end.
marcQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
rafeQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
modefamiliarity
twistSomething Pending
voices Evasive
Rafe
The west end. Always the west end. The tiles there are slick, green algae nobody scrubs because the budget got slashed. I told management. They just patched the drain cover with tape. You saw the head go down, then nothing. Just that bubble. It’s the silence that gets you, not the water.
Marc
Fuck management. They patch drains with fucking tape. I saw that bubble too. Rote. Like they think it’s a balloon. I’m heading to the site anyway—gotta argue with the foreman about the rebar. Again. He’s an idiot. You coming? Or are you just gonna stand there watching the algae?
Rafe
I’m coming. The rebar dispute is a sham. He doesn’t care about the specs; he wants the overtime creds. And I’m not watching algae. I’m checking the torque on the excavator bolts. You drive. Don’t take the scenic route through the reservoir. I saw the water level drop.
Marc
Fine. But if you complain about the potholes, I’m leaving you. The reservoir’s been low since Tuesday. Actually, Monday. I don’t remember. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Or the stress. Either way, the foreman’s gonna lose his mind when I bring up the unbalanced load. He’s sweating already. Just looking at him makes my teeth ache. Let’s go.
Rafe
I drove Tuesday. It was just dry dust. You’re mixing the timeline again. Don’t start on the potholes; my back’s already killing me. And leave the teeth-aching to me. I can’t have you biting through your tongue before we even get to the gate. Just get in the truck.
Marc
My timeline’s fine. It’s yours that’s fuzzy. Tuesday was raining. Or Tuesday was sunny. Who gives a shit. Get in the truck, Rafe. Stop lecturing me on my own back pain. I’ll drive. You check the bolts. Just don’t vomit on my dash. Again.
Rafe
You drove into the ditch last time. I’m driving. Check your own teeth, they’re rattling. And it wasn’t vomit; it was bile from the swerve. Pass me that flashlight. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it before the foreman starts his little tantrum. I left my lunch in the fridge. Damn it.
Marc
It wasn’t a ditch. The road just… disappeared. Pass the light. And your lunch? Jesus, Rafe. You’re five minutes from collapse. I grabbed a protein bar. It’s dry as shit, but better than watching you faint over torque specs. Grab the strap. Let’s go before the sun burns through the haze.
Rafe
Ditch or abyss, same result. You're sweating through your shirt. Stop wrestling the wheel. That bar’s gonna sit in your gut like a stone. I grabbed coffee, not lunch. The stapler’s where I left it. Don’t drop the light; I need to see the rebar’s twist, not your panic. Hand me the strap. Tighten it. You’re shaking.
Marc
I’m not shaking. The truck’s rattling. Hand me that strap. Tighten the fucking knot, Rafe. You always choke it wrong. I’ll check the twist. Just stop staring at my neck. It’s making me itch. And the coffee’s cold. Useless. Like the stapler’s probably going to be.
Rafe
You’re shaking. It’s the caffeine jitters, not the rattling. And I tied it correctly; you just yank it like a toddler. Stop pulling. The coffee’s fine. Drink it before it’s sludge. And stop checking the twist. I saw the rust. It’s the unbalanced load you’re worried about, not the knot. Relax your neck. You look like a chokehold victim. Drive.
Marc
Fuck you. I’m relaxing. You’re the one yanking. The rust is real. Unbalanced load is the excuse. See? That’s why I’m shaking. Not caffeine. The weight. It’s off. I can feel it in the seat. Keep talking about the knot. I’ll drive. Just don’t touch the wheel again or I swear I’ll pull over right here.
Rafe
You’re not driving. You’re swerving. I’m taking the wheel. The rust is real, but it’s secondary. The imbalance is what’s killing us. You feel it because your spine’s a spring. I’m driving. Look at me. Eyes on the road. Or at least on my hands. You’re vibrating. It’s terrifying. And the knot is fine. It’s always fine.
Marc
Fine. You drive. But if we flip, I’m haunting you. And it’s not just the spine. The whole rig’s groaning. That hum in the chassis. You hear it? Right? Just keep your eyes on the road, Rafe. And stop looking at my hands. It’s creepy as fuck.
Rafe
I hear it. That high-pitched whine? The bearing’s shot. You’re paranoid about the load, I’m listening to the metal fatigue. Same thing. Stop whining about my gaze. I’m watching the mirror. And you’re not haunting me; you’re broke. We’ll pay for the tow. Grab the dash. If we hit that pothole, lock your knees. Don’t look at my hands. Look at the road.