Unsupervised

Something to Hide ·

Open by accusing them of not being what they claim to be. Push off from this if it helps: bootleg t-shirts.

lenaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit omarQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modeinterrogation voices Deadpan

Lena

You’re wearing that faded Nirvana shirt again. The one with the peeling "Nevermind" logo. I saw the stitching on the collar. It’s sloppy. Mass-produced. Not the vintage piece you swore you found in a Seattle garage in ’93.

Check the tag. "Made in Bangladesh," dated 2022.

You claim you were there, alive, at the Factory, but you’re wearing a lie stitched by a machine in Dhaka. And you’re still lying to me. About the shirt, sure. But also about where you were last Tuesday. Don’t look at me like that. Look at the hem. It’s fraying in a way that suggests it’s been washed too many times. Stop deflecting.

Omar

It’s a good shirt. It’s comfortable. You’re obsessed with threads I bought at a thrift store downtown. Don’t make this weird. I was at the office. The server crashed. I stayed late. It’s boring, Lena. That’s the lie I’m telling you because the truth is that I just sat in my car and listened to static on the radio for two hours. But who cares? You’re holding a grudge over cotton and polyester blend. The collar is fine. The stitching is intentional distressing. Stop looking at me like I’m a suspect. I’m tired. Let it go.

Lena

"Intentional distressing." Right. Like your silence is intentional. You sat in your car listening to static? For two hours? That’s not a alibi, Omar. That’s an escape.

You didn’t go to the office. The IT log shows your login was inactive all evening. You told me about the crash, but you forgot to mention you never actually connected. You just pretended to work while you rot in idling metal.

And the shirt? The tag says 2022. The design was discontinued in ’94. You’re not just lying about Tuesday. You’re building a whole other reality out of thrift store scraps and radio noise. Why are you so terrified of just telling me what you actually did? Did you see someone? Or did you forget to come home?

Omar

The IT log is wrong. It always is when they don’t want you to see something. I logged in. The signal dropped. Whatever. You’re stalking my digital footprint now? That’s new. And creepy. I wasn’t in my car. I was at the bar on 4th. The one with the broken neon sign. I had three whiskeys. I talked to a guy who looked like my brother. I came home. The server thing was a cover because I didn’t want to explain the whiskey. But you’re twisting it. You’re twisting everything. Stop reading the tags. Look at me. Really look. I’m right here. I’m not hiding in Dhaka.

Lena

"Broken neon sign." You mean The Rusty Nail? That place has been boarded up since last winter.

And your brother? He’s in Portland. You told me that yourself. Three years ago. I was there when you said it.

You’re changing the story again. First the car, now a bar that doesn’t exist? You’re not just lying to protect your evening; you’re constructing a narrative that falls apart the second you try to hold it up to light.

Three whiskeys. At a closed bar. Talking to a ghost.

It’s not just the shirt, Omar. It’s the details. They’re leaking. You’re not tired; you’re terrified that if you stop spinning, the whole thing collapses. Who are you trying to fool? Me? Or yourself?

Omar

The Rusty Nail isn’t boarded up. I just went yesterday. The paint was fresh. You’re misremembering the date. Everyone misremembers dates. That’s how the brain works. It edits. It cuts the bad scenes. I didn’t lie about Portland. I didn’t say he was there last winter. I said he moved there. Three years ago. Big difference. You’re twisting words. And the whiskey? I had water. I was driving. I wasn’t drinking. I’m not terrified. I’m annoyed. You’re acting like a detective in a bad film. Stop looking for ghosts in the drywall. I was at the library. I checked out a book on concrete mixing. That’s it. Boring. Real. Unlike your fantasy about Dhaka.

Lena

Concrete mixing? You, a graphic designer?

And the library? I drove past it yesterday at 8 PM. The lights were off. The security gate was down. I saw the maintenance crew welding the lock.

You’re getting worse. First the bar, now a closed library? You’re not just lying; you’re constructing a world where everything is accessible except the truth.

And Portland. You said he moved there three years ago. You didn’t mention when. That’s a linguistic trick. A cheap one.

Stop treating me like I’m the one losing my grip. You’re the one offering up absurdities like "concrete mixing" as alibis. Why can’t you just admit you were somewhere else? Or with someone? What are you so afraid I’ll find?

Omar

Concrete is trendy now. Minimalist. You wouldn’t get it. It’s about structure. The library was open. The gate was up. You saw the wrong crew. People weld locks all day. It’s a coincidence. Portland was a trip. He’s here sometimes. He flies in. You know how it is. Long distance is hard. I didn’t say he was gone. I said he moved. The shirt is just a shirt. Why does the fabric matter more than the fact? I was tired. I wanted to be alone. Is that a crime? You’re dissecting my life like a frog in biology class. Stop it. Just stop. It’s exhausting. I’m going to shower. Don’t follow me.

Lena

"Concrete is trendy." Right. You, the guy who couldn't balance a checkbook in college, are into structural engineering?

And Portland. "He flies in." Suddenly he’s a frequent traveler. Convenient.

You think I’m dissecting you? I’m trying to find the seams in this tapestry you’re weaving. One moment it’s Dhaka, then a closed bar, now a library with upturned gates. Your facts are fluid. Malleable.

And the shirt. It matters because it’s the one thing you can control. The rest is slipping through your fingers.

Don’t run to the shower to hide. I’ll wait. I have time. And I have the catalog from that thrift store downtown. I know exactly which year you bought that shirt. 2022. Not 1993. Not even close. You didn’t just buy a lie; you bought the wrong one.

Omar

You dug up a catalog? That’s stalking, Lena. Not love. The shirt is vintage style. It doesn’t matter. The year is irrelevant. You’re obsessed with objects because they don’t lie back. People do. Portland is a distraction. He’s not coming. I said he flies in, I meant metaphorically. Emotionally. You’re taking it literally because it’s easier than admitting you don’t know where I am either. I was at the marina. Watching the boats. The tide was high. I didn’t bring a book. I didn’t bring a drink. I just watched the water. It’s grey. Like the shirt. Like everything. Stop looking at the tag. Look at the water. It’s the same color.

Lena

Metaphorically flies in? Omar, please. You’re barely holding together.

The marina? On a Tuesday? The tide tables say low tide at 8 PM. The water was gone. Just mud and old bottles. You were staring at a construction site, not the sea.

And the color? The shirt is navy. Not grey. You’re matching your lies to a world that doesn’t exist.

You’re not watching the water because you’re at peace. You’re watching it because you don’t know what else to do with your hands. Or your mouth.

If you were really at the marina, why did I see your car parked two blocks over, idling, with the lights off? And why is the passenger seat wet? Not from rain. It’s dry out. What spilled there, Omar? Or what was already there?

Omar

The passenger seat isn’t wet. It’s sticky. Coffee. From last week. I missed the cup. You’re reading into dampness that doesn’t exist. And the marina? The tide is a suggestion. Sometimes the water stays. Or goes. I don’t check the tables anymore. I just sit. The car was there because I was tired. I didn’t want to walk. Two blocks is two blocks. You’re projecting. You see what you want to see. A crime scene in a Honda Civic. It’s just a coffee spill. It’s gross. It’s mundane. It’s not a mystery. Stop analyzing the sticky spots. It’s just sugar and caffeine. Like you. Sweet and jittery. Go to sleep, Lena. You’re making things up. Like always.