I left the mic running in the office last night. You know how it is, the silence gets loud. I was just answering emails. The kind that don’t require your brain, just your thumbs. I didn’t hear anything strange. Or maybe I did and just ignored it. It’s easier that way. You asked about the noise in the hallway? There wasn’t one. I checked the logs. Well, I looked at the screen. It was clear.
You looked at the screen? Edie, the server room is offline. There are no logs. Just you and that humming fridge. And now this mic? You really think I’m going to believe you checked something that doesn’t exist? Stop trying to make the static mean something. It’s just bad wiring. Like the outlet in my apartment.
The outlet in your apartment is irrelevant. Focus on the fridge. It’s loud enough to mask a whisper, isn’t it? I’m not saying the logs exist. I’m saying I watched the blinking light. Green, red, green. Rhythmic. Predictable. You’re getting defensive about the wiring. That’s interesting. Most people would just ask why I’m watching the server room if it’s off. But you’re talking about your apartment. Why bring that up? Is the silence there louder than the hum here?
My apartment is quiet because I pay for it. The server room is a basement. You’re twisting words. I didn’t say I was defensive; I said it’s illogical. You’re obsessed with rhythms now? Blinking lights. Humming. It’s giving me a headache. Just because I mentioned the fridge doesn’t mean I’m hiding anything in it.
You mentioned the fridge. Twice. I’m just noting the pattern. You’re the one obsessed with my obsession. It’s a reflex, really. When someone corrects you, you correct them back harder. Like a dog barking at a mirror. And yes, I’m watching the light. Or imagining it. Does it matter? If the server is dead, why are you so eager to prove it’s dead? You’re performing for an audience of one, Pia. And you’re doing a terrible job. The outlet in your apartment doesn’t explain why you’re sweating.
I’m not sweating. It’s warm. The vents are broken. I told you that. You’re projecting, Edie. Always looking for angles. If I wanted to perform, I’d leave the mic off. Like everyone else. Stop staring at my face. It’s creepy. And it’s not a performance. It’s just... bad air quality. In the basement. And my apartment. Everywhere.
Bad air quality. Sure. That explains the headache. And the sweating. And why you keep touching your neck. You’re avoiding the mic. I saw your hand twitch when I mentioned it. You’re terrified it’s still recording. But if it’s off, why does your voice shake? You’re lying about the vents, too. The basement is cold. I felt the draft when I walked in. You’re cold. Shivering. And you’re blaming the air. Pathetic.
Touch your neck? I have a rash. From the new detergent. You’re seeing things, Edie. Violent even. I’m not shivering; I’m restless. You walk into my space, judge my air, now my skin? It’s cold in there. Always is. That’s why I keep my coat on. It’s not the vents. It’s just the building. Old pipes. Rattling. Like the mic, you say. Stop inventing this narrative. It’s exhausting.
You keep your coat on. Inside. Why? To hide the rash? Or to hide something under it? You’re talking about old pipes, rattling. I didn’t hear pipes. I heard breathing. Heavy, wet breathing. Behind the fridge. You say it’s exhausting to be judged. Maybe you’re just tired of the noise. The mic isn’t the problem, Pia. It’s the silence you’re trying to fill. With coats. With rashes. With complaints. What are you hiding in that pocket? The one you won’t let go of?
It’s my keys. God, Edie. Just keys. And a receipt for dry cleaning I haven’t picked up yet. You’re hallucinating. Breathing? Behind the fridge? It’s a motor. It clicks. It doesn’t breathe. And I’m not hiding the pocket. I’m holding it because my hands are shaking. Which, again, is the cold. You’re chasing ghosts. There’s nothing there but dust and that stupid, rhythmic clicking. Stop looking at my hands. Look at the wall. It’s empty.
The wall is empty. That’s what worries me. You’re staring at it like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored. And the keys. You’re gripping them so hard your knuckles are white. Dry cleaning receipt. Right. Because that’s what you need right now. A clean shirt for whatever comes next. The clicking stops when you speak. I noticed that. The motor doesn’t care about your words, Pia. But you do. You’re waiting for it to start again. Are you? Or are you just waiting for me to leave?
It’s not waiting. It’s breaking. That’s what happens when machines die, Edie. They don’t breathe; they break. You’re listening for a heartbeat in a corpse. And I’m not waiting for you to leave. I’m waiting for you to realize you’re trespassing. My hands aren’t shaking from fear. They’re cramping. From holding the door. Which is open. So leave. Before I call security. Or whatever’s left of it.
Trespassing. Right. You’re the one who locked the door from the inside, weren’t you? Or did you? I didn’t see a lock. Just that receipt. Dry cleaning. Why the urgency now? The door is open. I can hear the street. Cars. People. No security. Just you and the humming fridge. And the click. It’s louder now. Or maybe your ears are ringing. From all this shouting. Sit down. You look like you’re about to collapse. Or run. Which is it, Pia?
I didn’t lock it. You’re seeing conspiracies in doorframes now? Sit down? I’m standing just fine. My legs are fine. It’s you who’s blocking the light. The click? That’s the fridge kicking on. Again. You want me to sit so you can keep circling? No. I’m going to the kitchen. For water. Don’t follow me. And don’t touch the pocket. It’s just keys. I told you. Just keys.
Keys. Right. Go get your water. The kitchen’s empty, isn’t it? Just the sink and the tap. I heard you. You didn’t go to the kitchen. You paused. Just for a second. To check the pocket. To make sure it’s still there. The keys are still there. But something else is too. I saw you pull it out. When you thought I was looking at the fridge. It’s small. Silver. Not a key. What is it, Pia? The click stopped. The fridge is off. And you’re holding your breath. Did you lock the door? Or did you just imagine it?
It’s a lighter. A Zippo. My brother’s. It’s not a key. You’re delusional. I wasn’t checking the pocket; I was rubbing my thumb against it. To stop shaking. Which I’m not doing anymore. The fridge is off because I unplugged it. An hour ago. While you were talking about breathing. Go outside, Edie. Please. Before I actually call someone. Anyone.
A lighter. Right. You unplugged it. An hour ago. While I was… talking. About breathing. You’re rewriting time now. That’s convenient. If it was off an hour ago, why did we hear it click while you were shaking? Lying doesn’t just stop the noise, Pia. It creates new sounds. The friction of fingers on metal. The zip. The strike. You’re not calming down. You’re gearing up. Dry cleaning receipt. Lighter. Keys. A brother. You’re building a life I’m not invited to. And I’m still here. Waiting. Not for the fridge. For the truth. Or the fire. Whichever comes first.
The click was the door latch, Edie. Not the fridge. You’re mixing up the soundscape. I didn’t unplug it. I’m sweating because it’s hot. The lighter is just a lighter. My brother’s in jail. That’s why I have it. Not for fire. For... closure. You’re imagining the zip. There is no fire. Just you, standing there, waiting for a climax that isn’t happening. Go home.
Door latch. Right. So you locked me in. Or out. Your logic is a maze. Jail. Closure. Clichés. You think I care about your brother’s sentencing? I care that you’re holding a lighter like it’s a weapon. Or a talisman. You said "closure." That implies something ended. Something burned. Or was buried. The fridge is off. The lighter is in your pocket. But your hands are clean. Too clean. For someone who just struck flint. You’re lying about the strike. Or you struck it, and I didn’t hear it. Because you did it quietly. Intentionally. What are you hiding in the ash, Pia?
Ash? I don’t burn paper. I recycle. Like everyone else. My hands are clean because I washed them. Before you walked in. You’re obsessed with filth. With residue. It’s pathetic. I didn’t strike the lighter. I just took it out. To look at it. To see if it still worked. It doesn’t. That’s the point. It’s dead. Just like the fridge. Just like your... whatever this is. Stop digging. There’s nothing there but dry cleaning and regret.