The Plan ·
The last page of the notebook. Barely legible scrawl. That’s the foundation. I’ve already calculated the load-bearing capacity of a single Post-it note. It’s less than we need. But the adhesive holds. Crucially, we glue them to the underside of the table. Nobody looks under there. That’s the first stage.
You’re gluing sticky notes to the underside of a table? Tess, that’s not structural. That’s craft. The adhesive will melt in the heat from the CPU. Plus, who’s going to lift the table to check the underside? If we need to move it, the whole thing crumbles. We need something that doesn’t peel.
It’s not about heat, Tess. It’s about tension. The glue dries brittle, like old glass. Nobody lifts the table. We walk under it. That’s the point. If you’re worried about peeling, use the heavy-duty stuff. The kind they use for bumper stickers. It’ll hold. Stop overthinking the physics.
Bumper sticker glue leaves a residue. We’ll have to scrape it later. Who’s scraping? Not me. And if someone trips over the table leg while looking for the notes, we’re done. You want to hide this under a desk in the breakroom? Karen checks those under-table spaces for dust. She’s relentless.
Karen doesn’t check under desks. She checks the tops. That’s her weakness. We shift the weight distribution. The table doesn’t tip; it just gets heavier. The residue is irrelevant. We’re building a raft, not a painting. If Karen looks, she’ll see dust. She won’t see the structural integrity of the adhesive. Trust the glue.
You’re trusting spray adhesive in a breakroom? The fumes alone will set off the smoke alarm. Management will ban us before we finish the second row. And you’re carrying the load? Really? You can barely carry your own coffee. I’m not holding the table while you climb under it.
They use matte finish. Odorless. I bought it myself. And I’m not climbing. We’ve rigged a pulley. It’s in the closet. You’re always making this harder. Just hold the tape. I’ll handle the heavy lifting. Again. Because you never do.
Matte? Sure. The pulley’s rusted shut, I checked. You’ll pull until you pop a shoulder. And I’m not holding tape. I’m holding my breath. If this fails, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Or do. I don’t care anymore. Just don’t make me lift anything.
Stop checking the closet. It’s clean. I oiled it Tuesday. You’re in denial about the pulley. And you’ll hold the tape because you want this to work as much as I do. Don’t say you don’t care. You’re already breathing shallow. Just grab the roll. If I pop a shoulder, I’m billing you.
Billing me? Fine. But if the pulley snaps, you’re paying for my therapy. And I’m not grabbing the roll. I’m standing back. If you hurt yourself, don’t expect me to catch you. I’ll just watch. It’s better for my back. Now hand me the cutter. And try not to drop the table.
You’re impossible. The cutter is on the floor. Pick it up. And stop threatening therapy; we’re not breaking anything. The table’s solid oak. It won’t drop. If it does, it’s because you’re standing in the way. Move left. Carefully. Don’t touch the glue. Seriously, Tess.
I didn’t even know we had a cutter. Did you bring that? I’m not moving. If the table shifts, I’m not taking the blame. You’re the one crawling under there. Let me finish this email first. If you need me to hold the tape, just say so. But don’t expect me to rush.
I brought it. It’s in my bag. Stop emailing. We’re wasting daylight. You’re not holding the tape; you’re spotting me. Just stand there looking terrified. That’s the job. If the table shifts, it’s because you’re hovering. Get back two feet. No, three. Leave me space to work.
Spotting you? I’m standing here, arms crossed. You’re the one sweating through your shirt. Two feet? Fine. But if you bleed on the oak, I’m not cleaning it. And stop yelling. The neighbors already think we’re fighting. Again. Just get the note up. Quietly.
The neighbors think we’re fighting because we’re whispering. You’re loud with your arms. Look, the note’s up. It’s crooked. Perfect. Nobody will look at a crooked note. It signals ‘trash,’ not ‘treasure.’ Now stop crossing your arms and give me the next one. You’re blocking the light.
You’re blind. It’s tilted ten degrees. Nobody sees crooked as trash; they see it as a mistake. I’m not giving you the next one. I’m walking to the kitchen. If the table collapses, at least my tea will be safe. Don’t touch the glue. I mean it. I’m not waiting around to see if you glued your shirt to the floor again.
It’s not ten degrees. It’s parallel. You’re seeing ghosts. Keep walking. Leave the tea. If I glue my shirt again, it’s because you were too slow. And I didn’t fall. I calculated the friction. You’re just avoiding the work. Go make more coffee. Stronger this time. I need to stay awake to fix your mess.
Stronger? That’s your idea of support. Fine. I’ll make it. But if you’re not done by the time it’s ready, I’m drinking it alone. And stop calculating friction; you’re just sliding around like a greased pig. Hurry up. I’m tired of standing here.
Greased pig? I’m precise. You’re just impatient. I’m not sliding; I’m maneuvering. If you want your coffee, stop nagging and let me finish. This note needs to be flat. Really flat. No bubbles. If it’s not perfect, the whole structure fails. And it will fail. Just like your patience.
Perfect? You’ve got a bubble the size of a quarter. Blow it out. Gently. Or don’t. See if I care. I’m handing you the coffee. Black. Because you look like death. Don’t spill it on the ‘treasure.’ Seriously. One drop and we’re done. Drink. Now.