Last Day ·
Next week I'm supposed to be back at the pool, actually — used to swim every morning before work, back when Marek's place was a two-minute walk from mine. Now it's a whole thing, gotta drive, deal with parking. The deep end always used to clear my head before nine AM meetings. Doubt I'll bother honestly.
Marek’s still there? I thought he moved to that drafty loft downtown. The drive sounds miserable, I won’t lie. Parking downtown is a game of chance with a loaded die. But I get it. Once you let the habit rot, the enthusiasm evaporates. I stopped going to the gym after my knee gave out, too. Just easier to pretend I do yoga at home. You sure you’re not just making an excuse, Sam?
Nah, Marek's still in the old spot, the loft thing fell through — landlord wanted double. And yeah, probably making excuses, you know me. Pretending yoga counts is way funnier than my excuse though. At least admit you're lying to yourself with some style.
Marek’s stubborn. I respect that, even if it’s annoying. He’d rather overpay than lose the light. You’re right, though. I am lying. It’s less about the yoga and more about not wanting to face the mirror when I’m tired. But sure, let’s call it style. I’ll take the win. You’ve always been better at owning your lazy days. I just hide them behind “self-care.”
That's generous, I don't own them so much as narrate them convincingly. Self-care's just laziness with a marketing team, honestly. Marek would say the same about the light thing — sounds noble till you remember he just likes staring out windows instead of working. Miss when we used to make fun of him for it in person, over actual coffee, not like this.
Narrating them is an art form. I envy that. Marek definitely just likes the view. He’s spent more time gazing than typing in the last decade. Coffee was better, sure. Less friction. This ping-pong feels thinner. I have a meeting at ten that I’m already dreading. Maybe I’ll skip the pool and just stare at the ceiling instead. Same effect, less wet hair. You coming later? Or are you sticking to your narrative?
Sticking to the narrative, obviously. Got a bag half-packed and a train to catch that I'm pretending isn't happening yet. Ceiling-staring's underrated though, tell Marek he's onto something. Good luck with the ten o'clock — dread it with style, like the rest of us.
You’re running away. That’s what it is. Packing a bag half-way is a coward’s compromise. I’ll tell Marek. He’ll probably just nod and stare harder. Good luck with the train. Try not to fall asleep on the platform this time; people noticed last time. I’ll see you? No, don’t answer that. Just go. The coffee’s on me next time you’re actually here. Which, given your track record, might be never.
Ha, "given my track record" — brutal, accurate. Won't fall asleep, I've got standards now, sort of. Tell Marek to nod harder for both of us. Go deal with your ten o'clock, Lena. I'm off to pretend packing counts as progress.
Standards. Cute. I’m sure. Marek will get the message. I’ll make sure he nods with particular emphasis. Ten o’clock is calling, sounding like a wet sock hitting a tile floor. I’m off. Don’t wait up. Or do. I won’t mind, technically. Just don’t expect me to answer if I’m actually working. Which is unlikely. Go. Before I change my mind and ask you to stay.
Wet sock hitting tile, that's a whole personality for a meeting. Go on, don't change your mind, I'll only disappoint you with the packing. Take care of yourself, Lena. Really.
Wet sock. It’s accurate. You’re going to disappoint me? Good. I need the surprise. Stop being so nice before I cry or something ridiculous. Go. Pack that bag. Pretend it’s enough. I’ll be here, dreading the ten, staring at the ceiling, waiting for you to ghost me properly. Don’t look back. It’s rude. And Sam? Take care of yourself. Seriously. Even if it’s just standing there.
Not looking back, promise — mostly cause I trip on things when I do. Go dread your meeting with dignity. Ceiling's a good spot, tell it I said hi. Take care, Lena.
Trip over air. Classic Sam. I’ll tell the ceiling. It’s been quiet lately, probably lonely. Dignity is overrated, but I’ll try. Stop telling me to take care of myself. It makes it sound like I’m fragile. I’m not. I’m just tired. Go. Before I start crying in the parking lot. That would be embarrassing. And wet. Don’t make me wet. Just go.
Alright, alright — going. Don't cry in the parking lot, save it for the wet sock meeting, more thematically appropriate. Bye, Lena.
Go. Just go. I’m not crying. I’m squinting. It’s bright out here. The parking lot is just concrete and silence. You’re leaving. That’s the thing. I knew it, but hearing it… whatever. Tell Marek to stop staring at windows and actually do some work. For me. Or for yourself. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t be a stranger. If you remember how. Bye, Sam.
Squinting, sure. I'll tell Marek, though he'll just nod at me too, apparently that's the family trait now. Bye, Lena. Not a stranger, I remember how — mostly.
Family trait. Sure. If you say so. He’s got that glazed look down to an art form. I’ll save the message. Tell him to actually look at something for once. You’re gone. Or close to it. I should go stare at the ceiling too. Or work. Whatever. Just… don’t forget the wet sock thing. It’s too good to waste. Go. Before I make this harder than it needs to be. Which it already is.
Won't forget the wet sock thing, that one's a keeper. Go on, ceiling's waiting. Bye, Lena.
Keeper. See? You’re sentimental. I hate that you’re right. Go. The ceiling is gray. It’s waiting. I’m staying. You’re leaving. That’s the dynamic. It’s fine. It’s necessary. You pack your bag. I’ll pack my silence. We’ll meet in the middle, or we won’t. Doesn’t matter. Bye, Sam. Don’t trip. And don’t look back. I mean it this time. I’m closing the door. Not literally. But practically.
Not tripping, not looking back, door's closing, I hear it even not-literally. Bye, Lena. Go be brilliant at the wet sock meeting.
Brilliant. Right. I’ll bring the wet sock. And the ceiling’s greeting. Marek gets the nod. You get the silence. It’s clean, at least. No goodbyes that linger too long. Just a click. I’m staying here. You’re gone. That’s the deal. Go. Before I realize I’m supposed to be working. Ten o’clock. Wet sock. Ceiling. All of it. Bye, Sam. Really.
Really bye, Lena. Go be a wet sock about it in style.
Wet sock in style. I like that. It’s almost poetic. Almost. You’re gone. The silence is loud. I’m staring at the ceiling now. It’s judging me. Good. Marek will get the note. You’ll get the memory. I’ll get the meeting. Deal. Go. Don’t look back. I’m not crying. I’m just… squinting. At the ceiling. Which is gray. And waiting. For you to leave. Which you did. Bye.
Bye, Lena. Go squint at that ceiling for both of us.
Squinting is my superpower now. You’re lucky. I’m staying here, in the gray, while you run off to some other city. Marek will nod. I’ll stare. It’s a partnership of sorts. Don’t trip. Don’t look back. And don’t forget the wet sock. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore. Go. The door is shut. I’m alone. Finally. It’s quieter than I expected. And brighter. Too bright. Goodbye, Sam.
Goodbye, Lena.
Goodbye. Don’t let the floor trip you. I’ll keep staring at the gray. It’s honest, at least. Marek will nod. You’ll go. I’ll stay. That’s the script. I’m not going to say anything else. The meeting is starting. The wet sock is ready. You’re gone. I’m here. It’s fine. Really. Just… don’t forget to breathe out there. Wherever there is.
Won't forget. Go crush that wet sock meeting.
Crush it. I’ll bring a hammer. And the sock. Metaphorical, mostly. You’re gone. The room is empty. Marek’s nodding in the distance. I’m staring at the ceiling. It’s gray. It’s quiet. I’m not crying. I’m just… here. You go. Be brilliant. Or lazy. Just be there. I’ll be here. Staring. Waiting. For nothing. It’s fine. It’s what I do. Bye.