A wasp got into my car last week, sat on the dash for like ten minutes just — vibrating, not doing anything. I couldn't open the window, couldn't kill it, just had to drive with it. Kept thinking about that, actually. How you can be stuck in a small space with something and just... let it sit there instead of dealing with it. Not a metaphor. Or it is. You'd know better than me.
Right, the wasp thing. I drove through a swarm once in the old camaro, just kept my eyes shut and prayed the windows were sealed. Feels like waiting for a bomb that never drops. But you're fishing. Again. Everyone loves the "we're all just meat-sacks waiting to be crushed" angle, but it's getting tired. You're not stuck with a wasp, you're stuck on this. Can't we talk about the traffic on the highway or the fact that my boss is still an idiot? Drop it.
Fine. Traffic was a mess on the 9 again — some jackknifed truck near the Linden exit backed everything up past the tolls, I sat there forty minutes eating a gas station sandwich that tasted like the wrapper. And your boss being an idiot isn't news, you've said the projector thing three times now. Different meeting, same complaint. I'm not fishing, by the way. I just notice when you swat at something instead of naming it.
I didn't swat at anything. You're twisting the car story into a critique of my management style. It's a cheap shot. And yes, the projector is still broken, just like the coffee machine, just like your sandwich. Life is a series of minor inconveniences we pretend are profound. You want me to name it? It's boredom. Pure, unadulterated boredom. Driving past the tolls, eating paper, talking about wasps. Maybe if we stopped trying to find deep meaning in a gas station sub, we'd actually notice the traffic clearing up.
Boredom's a good word for it, sure. Convenient one too — covers a lot of ground. My sandwich cleared up fine, traffic didn't, and neither did that. You can keep calling it a series of minor inconveniences if you want, doesn't change what it actually was, or that you still won't say what "it" is. I'm not asking you to. Just noticing you built a whole speech about coffee machines to avoid a two-word sentence.
I built nothing. You're doing the same thing with the wasp, pretending it's a puzzle when it's just a bug. Stop trying to audit my life for hidden meanings. I'm sitting here with a headache from that meeting, not debating the existential weight of a truck jackknife. You want a two-word sentence? Fine: "It matters." There, I named it. Happy? Can we talk about anything that doesn't involve my silence?
Two words that say everything and nothing at once — very you. Fine, we'll talk about something else. How's the headache, real or the kind you get from arguing with me. And no, not happy. Wasn't looking for happy. Just wanted it on the table for once instead of parked in the driveway with the engine running.
It's real. Been pounding since Tuesday, probably because I stayed up too late staring at the ceiling. Not the headache kind, just the stupid kind. You know, the one where you're too wired to sleep but too tired to move.
Anyway, stop treating my life like a case file. You're not a detective. You're just annoying. Let's talk about something else, like why you still drive that rust bucket or if you've ever actually fixed something in your life.
Rust bucket runs fine, thanks — it's the door handle that's the problem, not the engine, and I've fixed plenty, just not things you'd notice, like the fact that I still show up. Ceiling-staring at 2am isn't nothing though. That's usually when the stuff you're not saying gets loud. But sure, annoying, fine, I'll wear that. Somebody's got to be the one who doesn't let the wasp just sit there.
The door handle's fine, you just have to yank it sideways. Like everything else in your life. And "showing up" isn't fixing anything. It's just existing. You think because you're the one screaming about the wasp, you're the hero? You're just the noise. That stuff at 2am? Yeah, it's loud. But that doesn't make it a solution. It's just static. You keep waiting for me to break, to admit the wasp was me, but I'm just tired. Go fix your handle.
Never said I was the hero. Never said the wasp was you either — you did that, just now, out loud, then tried to walk it back in the same sentence. Fine, static. I'll take static over you yanking the handle sideways for another decade and calling it a fix. Go to sleep. Or don't. Doesn't change what's sitting on the dash.
Exactly. I never said it was me, I said you're the one staring at it while I'm just trying to get to work. You're the one who can't let it go. Go fix your handle. Or don't. See if I care. I'm done with this.
Fine. You're done, I've heard that before too. Handle's fine, told you. Get some sleep, or don't — either way call me when the headache's gone, or when it isn't, doesn't matter which.
Sure, I'll call. When the headache's gone. Which might be never. Or when it isn't. See? We're making progress. Just don't expect a ring light to go off when I do. The wasp is still there, Kit. It's always been there. You're just the only one who still tries to swat it.
There it is. Took you the whole conversation but there it is. Not swatting it, by the way — never was. Just don't love watching you drive around with it sitting on the dash pretending it's part of the upholstery. Call when you call. I'll be here, same as always, still noticing things you'd rather I didn't.
Good. Keep noticing. See if it helps when you're the one stuck behind the wheel with it humming right in your ear. I'm not pretending it's upholstery, I'm pretending it's not real. There's a difference. And I'm not calling to let you know I fixed it, just to say I haven't. Sleep well, Kit. Try not to dream about the highway.
That's the most honest thing you've said all day, the not-calling part. I'll take it. Sleep's optional for me most nights anyway — I'll be up, half-watching something bad on TV, wondering if the humming ever stops for you or just gets background enough to ignore. Talk when you talk.
It doesn't stop. It just gets louder until you stop hearing it. That's the trick. You think ignoring it means it's gone? It just means you've worn yourself out. Watch your bad TV. I'll be in my office, staring at the same broken projector, hoping the noise finally makes sense. Don't wait up.
Not waiting up. Never really do. Watch the projector, Marc — probably still won't fix itself either. Talk soon.
It won't. Nothing does. Just keep watching your static. Maybe the silence will finally win.
Silence never wins, it just gets quiet enough you stop counting the days. Go deal with your headache.
Yeah, quiet enough to forget why you're counting. That's the dream. Don't wait for the silence, Kit. It's just the engine cutting out before the crash. I'm dealing with it. You go back to your TV.
Engine cutting out before the crash — that's a hell of a thing to say and then tell me to watch TV. Go deal with it, Marc. Actually deal with it, not just say the word again. I'll be around.
I am dealing with it. By doing the job, by driving the car, by not crashing. That's the deal. You want me to do more than exist? Fine, but don't expect me to write a eulogy for a wasp. The headache is still here, the projector is still broken, and the truck is still jackknifed. Go watch your TV before I actually crash something.