It was definitely your idea. I remember you saying roundabouts were “efficient flow mechanics” while eating that sad sandwich at the desk. Now I’m stuck with a permit application that cost four hundred bucks and a councilor who thinks a circle is a communist plot. I’m not taking that back. It’s engineering. You said so.
I didn't say efficient. I said roundabouts have merit. You chose the sketch. You picked the font. You signed the form. Four hundred dollars is gone. The councilor is an idiot, yes. But you built the trap. I just handed you the shovel.
I didn’t pick the font. You insisted on that grotesque sans-serif because it “projected authority.” And I signed because you said the deadline was yesterday, not today. You knew the form was incomplete. You saw the clerk glance at my ID. You told me to ignore it. Four hundred dollars down the drain because you’re too cheap to hire a lawyer who actually knows zoning laws. You’re standing there looking innocent?
I said yesterday because I was tired. You’re obsessing over a font. It’s Arial. It’s fine. The clerk didn’t care. You panicked. That’s on you. I’m not hiring a lawyer for a drawing mistake. We wait. We appeal. We bleed a little.
Arial is not fine when the planning department wants Impact. You’re bleeding me dry. I spent Tuesday fixing the error on the blueprint because you thought “close enough” counted. The clerk didn’t care? Try telling that to the rejection slip. I’m not waiting for an appeal. I’m calling the contractor. We tear out the concrete. It’s cheaper than fighting a city that hates us. You want to bleed? Fine. But I’m not paying for your stubbornness anymore.
You’ll regret tearing it out. The foundation is cracked now. You think a contractor fixes that with a hammer? It’s $2,000, Kit. Not four hundred. You’re gambling with rent money. I said close enough because I was drunk. You’re the one who swore by the dimensions. Now you want to destroy your own work? Pathetic.
You were drunk? Great. So I’m responsible for your blackouts now? The foundation isn’t cracked. I checked it this morning. It’s fine. You just want to save two grand because you’re terrified of your bank account hitting triple digits. I’m not tearing it out. I’m painting over the cracks. White paint. Thick coat. It’ll hold for five years, maybe six. Then we see what happens. But I’m not paying another dime on this circle hell. You wanted the shovel? Here it is. Sweep it up yourself.
White paint cracks in a week. You’ll look like an amateur. And your bank account is fine. You’re just cheap. I’ll sweep it. But don’t ask me when the council comes back. They’ll see the patches. They’ll smell the desperation. You’re gambling with my reputation.
Reputation? You think the council cares about my pride? They care about code violations. And I’m not cheap. I’m broke. There’s a difference. You’re the one who picked the font, the one who swore the dimensions were right while holding that beer. I’m done arguing. I’ll paint it. You sweep. If they come back, they’ll see what they see. I’m not gambling. I’m surviving. Now shut up and hand me the brush. Or don’t. I’ll do it myself.
You’re shaking. Hand me the brush. I’ll paint. You sweep the dust. We need the extra light in the shop anyway. The generator’s coughing. Fix it while I work. Don’t look at me like that. It’s just paint. It’s just dust.
My hands are shaking because I haven’t eaten since Tuesday. The generator’s not coughing; it’s dying. I tried to jump-start it last night. Smelled like burnt insulation. I’m not fixing it. Not today. You paint your pathetic circle. I’m going to the pharmacy. They sell aspirin that doesn’t taste like chalk. If the shop floods while I’m gone, let it. At least the council won’t see the cracks. Take the brush. You wanted to be the hero. Be the hero.
Eat the sandwich. The bread is stale but it’s calories. I’m not painting alone. You hold the light. Then we walk to the pharmacy. Together. If you leave, I lock the door. You’ll be stranded. Don’t test me. I’m tired of your martyrdom.
Fine. I’ll hold the light. But if you drop it on my foot, I’m breaking your fingers. The sandwich is disgusting. Stale rye with that廉价 mustard. I’m eating it because I’m starving, not because you’re kind. You’re just controlling. You lock the door? Go ahead. See if I care. I’ll walk to the next town. But I need that aspirin. My head is pounding like a jackhammer. And stop staring at me like I’m a broken engine. I’m not. I’m just tired of your circus. Hand me the bulb. And wipe that crust off the bread. It’s sticking to my thumb.
Your thumb is sticky. Wipe it on your pants. The bulb is in the drawer. Don’t break my fingers. You’re shaking so hard you’ll drop it. Eat. Chew. Swallow. We leave in ten. If you walk to the next town, I’m leaving your jacket here. Let them freeze.
Your jacket’s already gone. I left it at the diner Tuesday. You forgot to put it in the wash. So don’t threaten me with freezing. I’m fine. The bulb’s in the third drawer, not the second. You always misplace it. Eat the sandwich. It’s dry. Choke on it if you have to. I’m not walking to the next town. I’m walking to the pharmacy. And if you lock the door, I’ll kick it in. I’ve got a crowbar in the van. So stop posturing. Pass the aspirin. And wipe your hands. You’ve got mustard on your chin. Disgusting.
Mustard on my chin? You’re lying. You wiped it on your shirt. I didn’t notice. You’re sweating. The aspirin is in my pocket. You have to ask nicely. Or find them. I’m not handing them over while you threaten me with a crowbar. Sit down. Eat the rye. It’s better than chalk.