The dog’s collar is gone. Just the leather strap, frayed at the buckle. I found it under the sofa, buried in dust bunnies and a single dead moth. It wasn’t on him when I got here. He’s been staring at the hallway door for twenty minutes, ears flat. I don’t think he knows she’s gone. Or maybe he just knows she’s not coming back to put the leash on. The leather smells like old sweat and pine cleaner. I’m putting it in the trash bag. It’s heavy.
You’re putting it in the trash? Really? That’s where it belongs, under a sofa cushion, rotting with moth wings. I told you, Tess, you can’t just bag the evidence of his life. Look at it. The fraying on the buckle—see how it’s worn down on one side? He always dragged that leg. He didn’t just walk; he hopped, like he was trying to escape something or someone. He’s not staring at the door because he’s confused. He’s waiting for the click of the latch. You’re making him wait. Put it back. Or better yet, give it to him. Let him chew it up. It’s all he has left that smells like her.
I’m not doing this for a ritual. I’m doing it because the bag is filling up. The vet said the dog is stressed, Jo. If he’s chewing leather, he’s not eating his kibble. I can’t have him getting an obstruction. The buckle is sharp. It’ll cut his gums. You’re romanticizing the pain. It’s just plastic and metal. It doesn’t smell like her; it smells like mildew. I’m holding the bag. If you want it, take it. But don’t expect me to stand here while he hyperventilates. I have to clear the closet by five. The donation truck comes at six. I can’t wait for him to decide if he wants to hold onto a ghost.
"Plastic and metal." Jesus, Tess. You sound like the disposal unit at work. Cold, efficient, useless. You’re right, he’s not eating. I saw him tonight. The bowl’s full, untouched. But you think throwing this away fixes the hole in the hallway? It doesn’t. It just makes the silence louder. You’re rushing because you’re scared of the quiet. Fine. Take the bag. Go fill it with her socks, her toothbrush, the dried-up pens. But don’t tell me I’m romanticizing. I’m just the one left here to breathe the mildew while you run around trying to outrun the dust. If that dog chokes on the buckle, you’ll be the one holding the phone to the vet. Again.
My shift ends at four. I’m not scared of quiet. I’m scared of being late. You think I don’t hear him? I hear him pacing every time I zip a bag. It’s rhythmic. Like a metronome. I put the collar back. Not because it smells like her, but because if he breaks it, I have to sweep up the shards and I don’t have the energy for that. Go check on him. I’m done with the closet. The socks go in the red bin. They’re holey. Useless. Just like the pens. I’m leaving the keys on the counter. Don’t lock up. It takes forever.
"Metronome." You hear that? I don’t hear anything but your running. Socks in the red bin. Holeys. You’re cruel, Tess. Really. Leaving the keys on the counter like we’re sharing a studio apartment, not sorting through a dead woman’s life. I’m going to check on him. But only because if you’re late for your shift, you’ll be blaming me. Again. He’s still staring at the door. The collar is back. He’s sniffing it. Not eating. Just breathing. You think sweeping up shards is easier than sweeping up grief? Give it a try. I’ll stay. You go make your four. See you at six. Or don’t.
The dog isn’t eating. The collar is back. He’s sniffing it, not chewing. Good. I’m closing the closet door. The hinges squeak. I didn’t fix that. I’m leaving the keys on the counter. If you’re late for your shift, you’re on your own. I have to be at the warehouse by four. The forklift doesn’t wait. Go check on him. Or don’t. The socks are in the red bin. They’re holey. Useless. I’m done here. Don’t call me. I’ll see you at six. Or not. The door locks behind me. I hope you lock it. I don’t want to come back. Not today.
You lock it. Of course you do. The click is loud, sharp. Final. I’m standing here in the hallway, listening to the silence you left behind. The dog is still sniffing the collar. He doesn’t know she’s gone, or maybe he just knows she’s not coming back to put the leash on. The hinges squeak. You didn’t fix that. You never do. I’ll stay. I’ll watch him. I’ll listen to the metronome of his pacing. You think you’re leaving me alone? You’re leaving me with the dust bunnies and the dead moth. With the smell of old sweat and pine cleaner. Go to your warehouse. See if the forklift cares about your grief. It won’t.
I didn’t lock it. I left it open. Because if you’re not locking it, you’re waiting for me. Or for her. Doesn’t matter. The forklift is loud. The warehouse smells like diesel and wet cardboard. I sort boxes. I don’t think about the people who owned them. I can’t. If I did, I’d stop. I’m taking the trash out now. It’s heavy. The dog’s collar is in there. I didn’t put it back. He’ll find it. Or he won’t. You said you’d watch him. So watch. Don’t call me. I have to move the pallets. The foreman yells if I’m slow. He doesn’t care about the moth. Or the grief.
You didn’t lock it? You liar. I saw the deadbolt slide home. You’re just saying that to make me feel guilty. To make me stay here with the dog and the dust. "Wet cardboard." That’s your world now? Diesel and boxes? You think you can outwork this? You think moving pallets erases the squeak in the hinge? He’s found the collar. He’s got it in his mouth, dragging it across the floor. Listening to your lies over the phone. Go yell at your foreman. See if he cares about the moth. I’m staying. I’m watching. And I’m not calling. Because you’re right. I’m not waiting for you. I’m waiting for the silence to break. Which it won’t.
The deadbolt clicked. I heard it. I didn’t lie. I just don’t care if you know. The forklift horn blares. My ears are ringing. I’m stacking crates. Heavy ones. They don’t have names. They don’t have collars. I wiped my hands on my jeans. The grease didn’t come off. Neither does the memory of the moth. You’re watching him drag that leather across the floor. It sounds like sandpaper. I hate it. I hate that you’re sitting there, listening to every breath. I hate that I’m here, moving cardboard. We’re both stuck. You in the silence. Me in the noise. Neither of us is moving. Just stacking. Waiting.
Sandpaper. You hear that? I do. It’s driving me mad. You think your noise protects you? Please. The forklift horn is just background static. It doesn’t drown out the fact that he’s dragging that strap like a wounded animal. You wiped your hands. Grease never comes off, Tess. It stains. Just like this. You’re not stacking crates; you’re stacking up every reason you shouldn’t be here. And I’m not listening to his breaths. I’m counting them. One. Two. Three. Until he stops. Which he won’t. Not while you’re out there pretending the diesel smells like freedom. Get back in here. Before the noise stops. Or before I do.
I’m not stacking reasons. I’m stacking crates because the foreman is watching. You’re counting breaths. That’s your job now. I’m glad for it. Someone has to count. I can’t. If I stop moving, I have to think about the moth. And the pin in his jaw. I can’t look at that. Not here. The noise is good. It keeps the air moving. You want me back? Fine. I’ll come back when I clock out. But don’t expect me to sit in the quiet with you. I’m not a guard dog. I’m just tired. The grease is under my nails. It stays there. Just like the silence. Just like him.
"Pin in his jaw." You’re imagining things now. Or remembering too much. I’m not a guard dog, Tess. You’re the one hiding behind a forklift. Grease under your nails. Good. Let it stay. It’s real. This house is full of ghosts and dust bunnies and a dog who thinks the door opens because he wants it to. You clock out, you come back. But don’t say you’re not sitting in the quiet. You’re just waiting for the noise to stop so you can hear him breathe. And when he stops? Who counts then? You? Or me? I’ll be here. I always am. Until you decide to look at the pin.
There is no pin. You’re making up details to fill the silence. I’m looking at a pallet of wet cardboard right now. The forklift is shaking my teeth. I’m not hiding. I’m working. The dog is fine. He’s just chewing. That’s what dogs do. You’re projecting your panic onto the furniture. I’ll be back when my shift ends. Don’t count his breaths. It’s morbid. And it won’t change anything. The grease is just grease. It’ll wash off. Eventually. When I remember to use soap. You stay there. Listen to the squeak. I’m listening to the engine. It’s louder.
"No pin." Right. You’re erasing history now. Convenient. He’s chewing? Good. Let him shred it. Maybe then the silence will break. You think your engine drowns me out? It’s just noise. Empty, repetitive noise. I’m not projecting. I’m observing. The way you left the door open? That’s not "working." That’s a plea. A stupid, loud, diesel-fueled plea. I’ll stay. I’ll listen to the squeak. It’s got more character than your forklift. Go wash your hands, Tess. Or don’t. Let the grease stay. It’s the only thing real about you right now. I’m counting. I’m always counting. And you’re running out of crates.
There is no plea. There is only the clipboard. I am checking inventory. The foreman wants the count by six. I will be there. I will be there in grease and dirt. You can count. Count the dust motes. Count the tears on the floorboards. I don’t care. I’m not here to comfort you. I’m here to clear the house. The dog chews. The collar frays. The bag fills. That is the work. I’m not running. I’m walking to the truck. The engine is cold. It smells like oil. That’s real. You’re holding onto a squeak. I’m holding onto a paycheck. We’re both broke. In different ways.
"Paycheck." You sound like a machine. Cold, efficient, useless. The engine is cold? It smells like oil? Fine. Keep your oil. I’ll keep the squeak. It’s honest. You’re walking to the truck? You’re running. From the dog, from me, from the silence you claim to hate but cling to. The collar frays. Yes. Because you’re fraying too, Tess. Cracks showing through the grease. You think counting dust motes changes anything? It doesn’t. It just fills the time. Until six. Until the truck. Until you pretend you didn’t leave the door open. I’m not broken. I’m just here. Waiting for the noise to stop. Or for you to break. Whichever comes first. Probably you.
The door was open because I’m tired. Not because I’m broken. You’re twisting everything. I’m walking to the truck. The oil smell is thick. It coats my tongue. I’m not pretending I didn’t leave it open. I did. Because I couldn’t do it again. I couldn’t watch you count the dust. I’m going to drive. I’m going to listen to the radio. Loud. So I don’t have to think about the squeak. Or the collar. Or the pin. You want me to break? Fine. But I’m not breaking here. I’m breaking in the cab. With the engine running. And you’re staying. With the dog. And the silence. Good. You earned it.
"Pin." There. You said it. The silence just shattered. I didn’t earn it, Tess. I’m just the one left holding the pieces while you drive away with the radio blasting. The dog is chewing the collar now. Hard. Snapping it. Click. Click. Like a bone breaking. Or a lock. You think oil coats my tongue? It’s dust. Dry, choking dust. You’re breaking in the cab? Good. Break loud. Break somewhere I don’t have to hear it. But don’t you dare say I earned this. I didn’t ask for the squeak. I didn’t ask for the moth. You left. You left the door open and the dog and the goddamn pin. Go. Drive. See if the radio can drown out the sound of that buckle giving way. I’m not moving. I’m just watching him eat the proof you’re gone.