Just Now ·
It’s not just the glass. The whole chassis is warped. You can’t just swap the coil.
I’m looking for the reset button. There isn’t one.
Do you still have that key? No, forget it. You’re right, it’s gone.
I’m going to stand here until the coffee wears off. I don’t care if the sun comes up. I’m not moving until I figure out how to get that jar of pickles out with my bare hands.
Stop. Look at the floor.
Your shoe is in the mess. That’s not a pickle issue, Rafe. That’s a shoe issue.
I’m not going to stand here while you monologue about reset buttons. I’m going to go find the mop. You’re going to sit on that overturned chair and wait.
If you touch that jar again, I’m calling your mother. Not to tell her what happened. Just to tell her you’re being an idiot in my kitchen at three in the morning.
Sit.
I’m not sitting. My back hurts.
I’m looking at the floor. There’s a hole. A big, dark hole where the linoleum used to be.
I’m not going to sit on that chair. It’s wobbly.
I’m going to pick up the jar. Just to see if it’s still cold.
Don’t call her. She’ll ask why I’m still here. I don’t have an answer.
I’m going to sit on the floor. I’m going to sit right in the middle of the mess.
Is that better?
Better? You’re in the pickle juice.
You’re doing that thing where you think if you stay still long enough, the universe will reset. It won’t. The linoleum is gone. The jar is empty. Your pants are ruined.
I’m not calling her. I’m calling the plumber.
Get up. You’re making a mess of the mess. If you sit there, you’ll start believing you’re part of the disaster. You’re not. You’re just a guy with wet pants.
I’m grabbing the phone. You’re getting out of my kitchen.
I’m not getting up. I can’t. My legs are numb.
You’re calling the plumber. That’s stupid. It’s a hole in the floor, not a pipe.
I’m not part of the disaster. I’m just wet.
I’m going to stay here. I’m going to count the tiles. There are twelve. No, eleven. One is missing.
Stop dialing.
I’m not dialing. I’m holding the phone.
Numb legs? That’s not pickle juice, Rafe. That’s circulation. Or a nerve. Or you’ve been sitting in that cold spot so long your body gave up.
Count the tiles. Fine. But if you faint, I’m not catching you. I’m going to put the phone down and go to the car. You figure out the math.
Actually, don’t. Just breathe. The numbness means you’re alive. The wetness means you’re messy. That’s all there is.
I’m not moving. You’re not moving. We’re just two idiots in a ruined kitchen.
One tile is missing. So what? The house is still standing.
The house is standing. That’s not the point.
The point is the hole. You can see the dirt. It’s black. It’s deep.
I’m not breathing. I’m holding it.
If I breathe, I’ll have to think. If I think, I’ll have to admit I don’t know what to do with my hands.
So I’m counting. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.
You’re still holding the phone. Put it down. It’s heavy.
I’m not going to faint. I’m going to stay right here until the dirt dries.
I put the phone down. It makes a dull thud on the counter.
You’re not dying. You’re just stuck.
Don’t count. It’s a trap. Every number you say is another second you’re not moving.
Look at the dirt. It’s just dirt. It’s cold and it’s dry and it’s waiting for you to stop being dramatic.
I’m going to stand here. I’m not going to help you. I’m just going to stand here so you know someone is looking at the hole with you.
Breathe.
I breathed. I couldn’t help it.
The air tasted like copper.
I’m looking at the dirt. It’s not dry. It’s damp. It’s breathing back.
I’m not stuck. I’m waiting for the chair to stop wobbling. It’s not wobbling anymore. It’s gone.
I’m going to stand up. My legs are still numb. I’m going to stand up anyway.
If I fall, I’m going to fall into the hole. I’m going to fall into the dirt.
I’m standing.
You’re standing. Good.
Don’t look down. Look at me.
Your legs are numb because you’ve been in the cold too long, not because the earth is eating you.
I’m not going to catch you. I’m going to grab your shirt. If you fall, I’m pulling you back up, not down.
The chair is gone because it fell. That’s physics. Not prophecy.
Move to the wall. The solid one. Not the one near the hole.
You’re still wet. You’re still here. That’s all that matters right now.
I’m moving to the wall.
It’s cold. It’s solid.
I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the grout.
My legs are shaking. Not because of the cold. Because I’m standing.
I’m not wet anymore. I’m dry.
I’m not here. I’m on the wall.
You’re not dry. You’re damp.
The wall is solid. That’s good. Lean on it.
I’m not looking at the grout. I’m looking at you. Your knees are knocking. That’s just adrenaline crashing.
You’re not on the wall. You’re in my kitchen.
I’m going to put the phone back in my pocket. I’m not calling anyone.
You’re shaking. Let it happen.
Don’t talk. Just stand there.