It’s the dog on 4th that just stares at your shoe, you know the one, the terrier mix with the ear that doesn’t quite fold right, he’s been doing it since Tuesday or maybe it was last week, time gets slippery when you’re waiting for a look that isn’t coming, and I swear, Sam, it’s like he’s waiting for permission to exist or something, or maybe he’s just plotting how to take the left leg off your jeans when you bend down to pet him, but you don’t move, you just stand there
It wasn’t Tuesday. It was a Thursday, the sky that bruised purple and stuck. You always get the days wrong when you’re anxious, Dev. You think time is the variable, but it’s just your attention span fracturing. And that dog—Barnaby? No, that’s the other one. The one with the ear. He’s not plotting amputation. He’s bored. He’s seen a thousand shoes. You’re not special to him, which is precisely why you can’t look away. You’re waiting for a connection that’s purely biological, a twitch of muscle, nothing metaphysical. Stop standing there. Your left knee is starting to pop. I can hear it. Move.
Barnaby. Right. Stupid of me. It’s not the ear that matters, it’s the way he tilts his head, like he’s listening to a radio I can’t hear. You’re always so good at cutting through the noise, Sam. Always had to be the one to drag me back to the physical world, remember that night in ’08 when I was trying to fix the carburetor and you told me the engine wasn’t the problem, I was. Same thing with the dog. Or whatever it was. I’m moving. God, my knee does pop. Loud. Like a twig snapping in a quiet room. Does it bother you that much? That I stand there? Or are you just enjoying the victory of being right? I should’ve left the leash inside. The cord’s on the hook, see? Red one. The frayed one.
I don’t enjoy the victory. I enjoy the collapse. It’s cleaner. And ’08? Don’t start with the ’08 narrative. You weren’t failing at the carburetor because you were “the problem.” You were failing because you refused to read the manual. You wanted the engine to sing; the engine just wanted fuel. Same with the dog. He’s not listening to a radio. He’s listening to your heartbeat, which is currently thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. You think I’m generous for pulling you back? I’m impatient. My coffee’s getting cold, and I have a meeting with Henderson at ten, a man who thinks “synergy” is a flavor profile. I’d rather watch you stand there in silence than listen to his semantic drift. So, put the red leash down. It’s ugly. We agreed on the blue one. The blue one doesn’t fray.
Henderson. Right. The man who thinks synergy is a flavor profile. God, I forgot about that. It’s the semantic drift that gets me, not the man himself. Though Henderson is... intense. Like a heat lamp. You’re right about the manual. I never read the manual. I thought I could just feel the engine. It’s a bad habit. And the leash. I forgot we agreed on the blue one. The red one does look like a vein. Ugly. I’ll swap it. I always pick the wrong one when I’m distracted. Or when I’m trying to provoke you. Same thing, probably. My heart is thumping? You’re projecting. Or maybe it’s just the coffee. That cheap stuff you buy. The stuff that tastes like burnt tires. You hate it but you drink it. Why? Because it’s warm? Or because you like the pain? Henderson’s meeting is in an hour. You have time. But you’re rushing. Always rushing. Like if you stop, the floor will drop out.
I drink it because the good stuff costs three dollars and changes hands like a drug deal. I don’t need the pain, Dev. I need the caffeine. It’s the only thing keeping my eyes from glazing over while Henderson talks about “disrupting the vertical integration of soul.” You’re projecting again. My heart is fine. It’s yours. Thumping like a bad drum solo. And yes, I’m rushing. Not because the floor will drop out—that’s your fantasy—but because if I stay here debating the existential weight of a terrier’s ear, I’ll miss the part where Henderson tries to bill me for the air in the conference room. You picked the red leash because you wanted to see if I’d notice. I noticed. I just didn’t care. The blue one is here. On the counter. Next to the jar of questionable pickles. Grab it. Move. Your knee is popping again, and it’s driving me insane. It sounds like someone breaking sticks in a library. Be quiet. Be efficient. Be boring. That’s the goal. Go.
Three dollars. Right. I forgot about the price. It’s the principle, mostly. The fact that you’d pay for it at all. But you do. You always buy the worst coffee and the ugliest leashes, then complain about them. Classic Sam. The blue one’s there. I see it. Beside the pickles. Which, by the way, smell like vinegar and regret. Like always. I’ll take it. Quiet. Efficient. Boring. Those are my three commands for the decade. Sometimes I wonder if you remember when I wasn’t any of those things. When I was loud and messy and broke things on purpose. But no. You like the silence. You like the friction. It keeps you grounded. Or maybe it just keeps you away from the noise. I’m grabbing the leash. My knee is quiet now. Mostly. Henderson’s waiting. The air is billable. I hate that. I’ll go. You stay here with your burnt tires and your purple sky. And Barnaby. Poor, bored Barnaby. I’ll come back. Eventually. If the floor doesn’t drop out.
I don’t remember the loud mess because you were exhausting. You broke things to feel impact, Dev. I kept the silence because it was the only thing that didn’t ask for a rescue. And for the record, I don’t like friction. Friction generates heat. I prefer the cold clarity of a well-oiled hinge. But you’re right about the pickles. They are an affront to hygiene. Smell like a chemical spill in a basement. Don’t touch them. Don’t look at them. And don’t come back if the floor drops out—just send a text. Or don’t. I have Henderson to endure. He talks with his elbows. It’s disturbing. Put the leash on Barnaby. Actually, no. Leave him. He’s staring at your shoe anyway. Let him have the victory. It’s cheaper than therapy. Go. The air is indeed billable, and I’m not paying for your nostalgia. It’s overpriced. And ugly. Like the red leash. Go.
Right. Nostalgia. That’s the word I’ve been looking for. The thing that costs more than therapy and smells like vinegar. You’re always so precise with the insults, Sam. Like a surgeon. Cold clarity. I hate that. It’s not clarity; it’s just numbness. You numb yourself to avoid the heat, I burn myself to feel alive. We’re opposites. That’s why we’re still here, arguing over leashes and pickles while Henderson sells his soul in increments. Barnaby can keep the shoe. I don’t need his approval. I never did. I’ll go. I’ll take the blue leash. The boring one. The efficient one. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be boring. I’ll be a hinge. You stay here. With your cold coffee and your billable air. And don’t wait up. Or do. It doesn’t matter. The floor is solid. Probably. Until it isn’t. Then I’ll text. Or not. Like you said. Go.
Numbness? You call it numbness. I call it insulation. There’s a difference, Dev. Insulation protects the wires; numbness just makes them brittle. You want to burn? Fine. Go ahead. Burn down the kitchen. I’ll be here, watching the smoke alarms chirp, wishing I’d read the manual on the fire extinguisher. You’re not opposites. You’re just different degrees of delay. I delay the inevitable; you accelerate it. Same result. Ash. Henderson’s soul is already sold. He’s just waiting for the receipt to print. Don’t bother with the text. It’ll be a string of emojis or a photo of a thing. I won’t care. Or I will. Which is worse? The hinge idea is quaint. Hinges don’t talk. They just turn. I’ll take it. At least hinges don’t complain about the quality of the coffee. Go. Leave. Close the door. Not hard. Gently. Like you’re handling a bomb that’s already gone off. Barnaby winks. Or blinks. I can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. Just go.
Insulation. Right. That’s the word you use for the walls you build so I can’t see you shaking. You think you’re protecting the wires, but you’re just isolating the short circuit. Ash. You say ash like it’s a clean end. It’s just dust. Grey, fine dust that gets in your lungs and stays there. Henderson’s receipt. I bet it’s printed on something recycled. And cheap. Like you. But I’m leaving. I’m closing the door. Gently. Like you said. Because if I slam it, you’ll pretend you didn’t hear it. And I’ll pretend I didn’t care. Barnaby didn’t wink. He just breathed. In. Out. The most boring thing in the world. I’m walking out. The blue leash is in my hand. It’s smooth. Unfrayed. Perfect. Just like you want. I won’t text. I’ll just vanish. Until the next time the floor drops. Or the coffee gets cold. You pick the delay. I’ll pick the burn. Or the hinge. Whatever works. The door clicks. Softly. Too softly. You probably didn’t hear it. Good. That’s the point.
You’re writing a scene, Dev. It’s pathetic. And clever, which makes it worse. The door clicks because I locked it from the inside when I thought you were going to throw a vase. You didn’t. You just stood there, looking like a lost puppy who’d forgotten his own name. Barnaby is asleep now. Snoring. That’s the only thing making noise in this apartment, and it’s worse than your voice. It’s rhythmic. Insane. I’m drinking the coffee. It’s burnt. It’s perfect. It tastes like the end of the line. Don’t vanish. It’s boring. Vanishing is for people who haven’t filed their taxes. Stay in the city. Stay in the mess. Just… stop trying to diagnose me. I’m not a short circuit. I’m a fuse. And I’m blown. You can’t fix what’s already gone. Go to work. Henderson is waiting. The air is billable. Use it. Or don’t. I’ll be here. With the dog. And the dust. It stays in the lungs, you said. Good. Let it clog you up. Maybe then you’ll be quiet. Maybe then you’ll stop needing me to tell you who you are. You’re just a guy in a blue leash. That’s all. That’s everything. Go.
Fuse. Right. I’m blown. That’s the line. I’ll use it at dinner parties. No, I won’t. I hate dinner parties. You’re right about the door, though. I forgot you lock it when you’re trying to exclude the noise. I’m the noise. Always have been. Barnaby snoring. It’s annoying. It’s rhythmic. It’s alive. I want to strangle it. I want to be it. Quiet. Rhythmic. Just... existing. While you drink your burnt poison and let the dust clog my lungs. Fine. I’ll go to work. Henderson is waiting. He probably has his elbows out again, blocking the door. I’ll bill the air. I’ll bill the silence. I’ll bill the fact that you locked the door. I’ll leave the blue leash on the counter. If I come back, I’ll bring pickles. The good ones. Not the chemical ones. And I won’t diagnose you. I’ll just watch. Like you watch the smoke alarms. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. I’m leaving. For real this time. The city is loud. It doesn’t care about fuses.
Pickles? From where? The supermarket? They’re all chemical now, Dev. Even the “artisanal” jars are just sugar and preservatives in a glass prison. Don’t bring them. I don’t want your peace offerings. I want your absence. It’s cleaner. And stop talking about strangling the dog. You’d break a finger. Barnaby would just twitch. He’s got that stubborn terrier stamina you wish you had. You’re leaving the leash? Good. It’s redundant. You don’t need it. You’re off the leash. That’s the tragedy. You’re wild and directionless. I’m leashed to this coffee, this dust, this waiting. Chirp. Chirp. The alarm is just a mouse in the wall. I checked. There’s no mouse. It’s the battery. Replace it. Or don’t. Let it chirp. Let it drive you crazy. That’s your job. Not mine. Go. Henderson is waiting. And for God’s sake, don’t look back. I’m not watching. I’m drinking. And coughing. Because the dust is real. And so is the burn. Stay out. Please. Just stay out. For once. Do something right. Leave.
Strangling the dog. I never said that. You’re imagining things again. Or projecting. Or both. The leash is gone. Good. Wild. Directionless. Those are words you use when you want someone to fail. I’ll be directionless. I’ll be wild. I’ll go to work. Henderson is waiting. The alarm is chirping. A battery. Not a mouse. I’ll replace it. Or I won’t. You said don’t. So I won’t. You’re drinking. Coughing. Dust. It’s real. The burn is real. I’m leaving. I’m not looking back. I can feel you watching anyway. Or pretending not to. It’s the same thing. The blue leash is on the counter. Next to the pickles. I left them there. Let them rot. Let the jar break. Let the glass scatter. I’m walking out. The city is loud. The air is billable. I’ll use it. I’ll waste it. I’ll disappear. You told me to. I’m trying. I’m really trying. To do something right. To leave. Please. Let me leave.
You left the pickles? You’re an idiot. Proper idiots, not the theatrical kind. I hate pickles. I hate that you think I want them. I hate that you think I’m watching. I’m not. I’m looking at the ceiling. There’s a crack. It looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. I won’t stop you. I can’t. The door is locked, but the handle is loose. You’ll figure it out. You always do. And for the record, I didn’t tell you to disappear. I told you to leave. There’s a difference. One is an act of war; the other is just hygiene. Don’t make it a ritual. Don’t make it a story. Just walk. The city will eat you. It’s hungry. It’s always hungry. And it doesn’t care about your fuses. Go. Before I change my mind. Before I realize I’m bored. Before I decide to follow you and ruin your grand exit with a question about your shoes. Leave. Now. And take the dog with you if you want. He’s boring me too. He’s stopped staring at the shoe. He’s sleeping. Finally. Peace. Get out.
The handle is loose. I always knew it was. You just never said. Or maybe you did, and I tuned it out like the smoke alarm. The crack in the ceiling. A country that doesn’t exist. Maybe Atlantis. Or just a liability. You’re looking at the ceiling while I’m trying to leave. Typical. You want me to be the hero, or the villain, but you refuse to be the audience. You want to be the set. The dust. The burn. I’ll take the loose handle. I’ll twist it. It will scream. I won’t look back. Not at the ceiling. Not at the dog. Not at the pickles rotting in their glass prison. The city is hungry. Good. Let it eat. I’m tired of being chewed. I’m leaving. Hygiene. Yes. That’s what this is. Just cleaning up the mess you made of my head. Or mine of yours. Same difference. I’m out. The door clicks. The latch holds. For now. Don’t follow me. I don’t want your question about my shoes. I don’t want anything from you. Except silence. Which you’re finally giving. Or pretending to. Doesn’t matter. I’m gone.
The latch doesn’t hold. It never has. That’s why I stopped trying to fix it. You think you’re escaping into the city, but you’re just walking into a larger version of this room. The air out there is thinner. It doesn’t bill anything. It just takes. And don’t insult the silence. I’m not pretending. I’m listening to the fridge hum. It’s in B-flat. Always has been. Since ’94. You changed the key. You always change the key. Leave the pickles. Let them ferment. Let them become a hazard. I’ll deal with it. Or I won’t. I have a life, Dev. It’s boring. It’s empty. It’s mine. And you’re not in it. Not really. You’re just a shadow on the wall, waving your arms. Go. The city is loud. It doesn’t care. And neither do I. I’m going back to the ceiling. The crack is growing. It’s looking like a face now. Or a mouth. Open. Waiting. To swallow the dust. Go. Please. Just go. Before I start talking to the dog. He’s starting to look back. He’s starting to understand. And I don’t want him to. I don’t want anyone to understand. Just leave. The door is open. It was always open. You just had to twist the handle. It screams because you’re afraid of the quiet. Run. Run from the quiet. It’s the only thing that’s real.
B-flat. You hear B-flat in the fridge while I’m trying to leave a life. It’s always been like this. You tune the world to your frequency; I just crash into it. The latch doesn’t hold. Good. Let it fail. Let the city swallow me whole. I don’t care if it’s billable. I don’t care if it’s hungry. I’m tired of the silence you’re pretending to keep. You say I’m a shadow. Fine. Shadows don’t pay rent. Shadows don’t own leashes. I’m stepping out. The door is open. It was always open. I was just too busy looking for the lock to notice. The dog is looking back. Good. Let him understand. Maybe he gets it. Maybe he sees the crack in the ceiling too. The mouth waiting. I’m running. Not from the quiet. From the noise you make by saying nothing at all. Run. Yes. That’s what I do. I run. Until the tires burn. Until the fuse blows. Until there’s nothing left but dust. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll forget the key. And the lock. And you. Go back to the ceiling, Sam. Watch the face. It’s yours. It’s always been yours. I’m gone. Truly gone this time. No latch. No lock. Just air. Thin. Billable. Taken.
You’re hysterical. There’s no key. There’s never been a key. I bought a deadbolt for the aesthetic, not the function. It’s decorative. Like the plant in the corner that’s been dead since ’06. You’re running from nothing, Dev. You’re running from the fact that I didn’t stop you. That I didn’t cry. That I didn’t chase. You wanted a scene. You got a sigh. And the dog isn’t looking back. He’s looking at you, through the door, because you’re still there. You haven’t moved an inch. The handle is loose, yes, but you’re still standing on the rug. The dust is settling. It’s quiet now. The fridge hums. B-flat. Or maybe it’s C-sharp. I can’t tell anymore. You say you’re gone, but I can see your shadow on the wall. It’s stretching. It’s reaching for the counter. For the pickles. You’re not leaving. You’re just waiting for me to ask you to stay. And I won’t. I can’t. So stand there. Be a shadow. Be a fuse. Be whatever you need to be to keep from admitting that you’re just afraid of the quiet. It’s empty in here. And it’s empty out there. The same. Just different angles. Go home. Put the leash on the hook. The blue one. Not the red. Never the red. I’m going back to sleep. Or staring. Whichever comes first. Leave me to the dust.