People always assume that if you don't have a loud, booming voice, you don't have convictions. It’s exhausting, really. Just because I'm not shouting doesn't mean I'm not certain about things. It’s like having a wasp trapped in a car—you don't need to hear it buzzing to know it's there, changing the whole atmosphere of the cabin. Anyway, the coffee here is much stronger than what they serve at the office. You haven't touched yours in ten minutes, Ivo.
It’s just a bit too bitter, Marc. If it were any stronger, it would be medicinal. And don't start with the wasp analogy; it’s a bit much for a Tuesday. Besides, being loud is often just a way to cover up the fact that you haven't actually thought things through. It’s all performance.
Performance can be useful when you're trying to navigate a crowd of people who don't really matter. My manager at the firm thinks the same way about the quarterly reports—lots of noise to distract from the lack of substance. But you're not really talking about volume, are you? You're talking about what's underneath. You have this way of looking at the table whenever the conversation shifts to something personal. It's like you're checking the exits. You haven't mentioned your sister once since we sat down.
She hasn't done anything to warrant an interrogation. We aren't even in a courtroom. Besides, the table is just chipped. If you're looking for a deep psychological motive, you're reaching. I just find the light in here a bit... sharp. It makes everything look too much like it's under a microscope. It's distracting.
It is sharp, isn't it? Everything feels almost too bright to be honest. But the chip in the wood is the only thing in this room that's actually permanent. Everything else is just... layered. You're quite careful about that, aren't you? You keep your coat draped just so, like you might need to pull it tight and vanish. My mother used to say that the people who are the most uncomfortable with the light are the ones with the most to hide in the shadows.
Your mother sounds like she enjoyed a bit of drama. It's just a coat, Marc. I'm not planning a disappearance before we've even finished our drinks. If you're so obsessed with the shadows, maybe you should stop staring so intently at me. It's almost as if you're looking for a secret that isn't even there.
She didn't care for drama; she just had a knack for seeing through the pretense. It's not that there's a secret, Ivo. It's just that you've been sitting here for an hour, and you've mentioned everything from the weather to the quality of the beans, but you haven't once mentioned where you actually were last weekend. You're so focused on the lighting to avoid the glare, but the glare is the only thing making us see clearly. The truth is usually much more uncomfortable than a bit of shadow.
Last weekend? It was nothing. Just a few errands in Lyon, mostly. You're acting like I’ve been missing in action. I don't see why my weekend needs to be a revelation. Besides, the coffee's gone cold. If you're so eager to unearth the truth, maybe stop acting like a detective and just drink your coffee.
Lyon. A short trip for errands, then. You didn't mention you were heading there when you left on Friday. It's funny, you're so quick to dismiss the detective act, yet you've framed your weekend in such a tidy little box. It’s almost as if you’ve rehearsed the brevity of it. My sister used to do that—give a minimal answer to close a door before someone could walk through it. Are you trying to close a door, Ivo? Or just a window?
The train was just easier than driving, that's all. You’re making a whole saga out of a forty-eight-hour trip. If you want to call a simple answer "rehearsed," then fine. It’s easier than letting you turn every mundane detail into a goddamn autopsy. I wasn't trying to close any doors. I was just... traveling.
An autopsy is a messy thing to perform, but sometimes you have to see what's actually inside to understand the structure. You say the train was easier, but you didn't mention the train ticket. You just mentioned the city. It’s a subtle distinction, but a real one. You’re so defensive about the scale of it—as if a forty-eight-hour trip should be able to stand on its own without any context. Most people wouldn't think twice about it. You, however, seem to think the silence is enough of an explanation.
The ticket? It's just a piece of paper, Marc. You're dissecting the bones before you've even seen the body. If you need a full itinerary to be satisfied, you're going to be waiting a very long time. The silence is fine. It's better than all this constant, unnecessary chatter. It lets you breathe.
Silence can be a vacuum if you're not careful. It draws the air out of the room. You say it lets you breathe, but you look like you're holding your breath, waiting for the moment you can stand up and leave. It’s curious, though. You talk about the necessity of breathing, yet you’ve been avoiding the topic of that weekend as if it were a physical weight. If it was just a simple trip, why does it feel like you're guarding a specimen?
A specimen? Don't be ridiculous. You're projecting all this weight onto something that has none. It was just a trip. Sometimes you go somewhere just to be somewhere else, without needing to file a report about it. If you think I'm holding my breath, maybe it's because you're taking up all the oxygen in the room.
It’s an interesting defense, to blame the observer for the thing being observed. You say you were just traveling to be somewhere else, but you haven't even looked toward the window once to see if the view is worth the effort. People who go on spontaneous trips usually have a certain... lightness about them. They don't sit like they're waiting for a verdict. You've been checking your watch twice in the last five minutes, Ivo. Are you actually running out of oxygen, or just running out of time?
The watch is just a watch. And time is something we all have in varying amounts, so don't act like you own the clock. It's not about a verdict; it's just that you're making this a much bigger production than it deserves. If you want to talk about the view, look at the window. Stop looking at me.
If I look at the window, the conversation might drift into the mundane, and we both know how much you loathe that. You're so keen on the window, but your eyes keep darting back to the door. It’s almost as if you’re expecting someone to walk in and witness this, or perhaps you're expecting to be seen. It’s a heavy thing, the way you carry yourself. You say it's a production, but a production requires an audience. Are you performing for me, or for someone you left in Lyon?
Lyon wasn't a performance, and it certainly wasn't for an audience. You're twisting things to suit your little mystery. It’s exhausting. If I look at the door, it's because the draft from the entrance is freezing. Stop trying to turn a simple coffee into a grand unveiling. You're seeing ghosts where there's only empty space.
Ghosts are often just the things we refuse to name. You call it an empty space, but there's a density to the way you speak about it—as if the vacuum itself has a shape. It’s funny you mention the draft. You haven't even crossed your arms to ward off the chill, yet you've pulled your shoulders up toward your ears. It’s a very protective stance. If there's nothing there, why are you so careful not to let anyone in to check?
It’s a natural reaction to being poked, Marc. If you kept digging into everything, most people would tighten up too. You’re acting like there’s some great treasure buried in my weekend, but it’s just... it was just a weekend. One of those trips where you don't really want to talk about it because there's nothing to say.
"Nothing to say" is the most convenient phrase for hiding something, isn't it? It’s a polite way of saying the subject is closed. You’ve been so precise with your words today—so careful not to let anything slip—that to say there is nothing to say feels almost like a lie. You have this habit of smoothing things over, like you're trying to flatten a wrinkled map. If there’s truly nothing there, Ivo, why does it feel like you’re working so hard to keep the dust from settling?
Maybe because once the dust settles, the picture becomes too clear, doesn't it? You want everything perfectly defined, every little movement given a meaning. It’s relentless. And fine, maybe there was a bit of... an old matter to settle. But calling it a lie? That’s just your way of being uncharitable. It’s too much.
"An old matter to settle." You finally let the door crack open, and all we get is a glimpse of the hinge. It’s a much more interesting answer than the empty space you were offering before. But you're right, it is a bit of a heavy phrase for a coffee shop. You say it's uncharitable to question you, but people rarely use words like "settle" when they're talking about a simple errand. Was it a person, Ivo? Or just a ghost you finally caught?
It was a matter of closure, nothing more. You’re too eager to put a face to everything. It doesn't have to be a person, and it doesn't have to be a ghost. Sometimes you just need to put a book back on the shelf. You’re making it so difficult to just exist without being dissected.
Putting a book back on a shelf is a quiet, final thing. You don't usually travel to a different city just to close a volume unless the story has some weight to it. You say it doesn't have to be a person, but you’ve handled the topic as if it were something fragile, something that might break if you spoke too loudly. You’re so focused on not being dissected that you’ve forgotten you’re the one who brought the scalpel to the table. What exactly was in that book?
It wasn't a book. It was just... things that needed to be sorted. You’re grasping for a metaphor because you can't handle the lack of a plot. The weight is in your head, Marc, not in the suitcase. If you’re so curious, why can’t you just let the mystery stay a mystery? It’s much cleaner that way.
A mystery is clean only until you have to live with the questions it leaves behind. You're right, though—it is easier to leave it as a vague, shimmering thing rather than facing the concrete truth of what happened in Lyon. You talk about the weight being in my head, yet you're the one who brought the suitcase, metaphorically speaking. You've been carrying it since we sat down. Tell me, once everything is finally sorted, what do you plan to do with the empty space you've made?
Empty space isn't a void to be filled; it's just room to breathe. Once the dust is cleared, there will be nothing to do but move on. You’re so preoccupied with the aftermath that you can't even enjoy the present. If the space is empty, it's because the clutter finally got cleared out. Is that so hard to grasp?
It’s not hard to grasp, but it is a lonely concept. To clear everything out so thoroughly that you're left with nothing but breathing room—it sounds like you’re trying to erase a footprint. You speak as if the clutter was something external, something just sitting there, but you’ve been reacting to it like it was part of your own skin. If the space is empty now, why do you still look like you're waiting for someone to walk through it?
Maybe because you're standing in the doorway, Marc. You're so busy examining the emptiness that you haven't noticed you're the one making the silence feel so heavy. It's not about being lonely. It's just... quiet. And sometimes, quiet is the only thing that makes sense after you've finally finished something.
You’re right; if the doorway is where the noise is, then of course the silence feels heavy. You’ve spent this whole time defending the quiet, yet you’re the one who brought it up as if it were a hard-won prize. It sounds like a truce, more than a beginning. You say you've finally finished something, as if you’ve just crossed a finish line. But you're still wearing your coat, Ivo. You're still ready to move. Are you finished, or are you just hiding?
I'm wearing the coat because it's a cold day, not because there's a race to be won. You're obsessed with the idea that everything must have a grand destination or a dramatic conclusion. Sometimes, you just finish a task and you go home. The coat stays on until you're actually walking. It's not that complicated.
A task. You call it a task. It’s a very sterile way to describe something that clearly cost you something to resolve. You've been so careful to strip the emotion out of it, to turn a journey into a mere errand, but the precision of your defense is the most telling part. Most people don't work this hard to prove they aren't working at all. If it was just a simple task, why do you look like you’re still carrying the weight of it in your hands?
You're making a spectacle of nothing. It’s a heavy word, "task," but it doesn't mean it was easy. It just means it's done. If I look like I'm carrying weight, it's only because you keep piling your questions on top of me. Maybe if you stopped digging, you'd realize the hands are empty.