Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s stupid. The salt. You left the shaker on the counter, didn’t you? Or maybe I moved it. I can’t remember if I moved it or if it was just... there. Waiting. It’s gritty in the carpet now. I swept it up, mostly. But some grains got into the sofa cushions. I can feel them when I sit. Little sharp points. Why are you looking at me like that? Did you eat the bread?
I ate the toast. Burnt. You didn't notice? The salt... I remember dropping it. Or maybe I threw it. No, that’s too dramatic. I’m just tired. My boss made me redo the spreadsheet for the third time. I hate those numbers. They’re all wrong anyway.
Don’t ask about the bread. It’s stale. I’ll throw it out. Or maybe I already did. The bin’s overflowing. Again. I feel like I forgot something crucial. Something loud. But it’s quiet. Too quiet. You’re staring. Stop it.
Bread was never fresh. It’s been in the bag since Tuesday. Or Sunday? I stopped counting. The salt is just salt, Lena. It’s not a confession. You dropped it. I watched. You laughed, but it sounded like a cough. Don’t look at me like I’m hiding something. I’m just sitting here. The numbers don’t matter. Nobody cares about the spreadsheet. Except you. And maybe your boss. Is that why you’re so on edge? Because you messed up a cell? Or because you forgot to turn off the stove? I heard a hiss.
I didn’t laugh. I was choking. On the bread. Or the air. It’s dry in here. Stale, like the loaf. You’re twisting it. Always twisting. I didn’t drop the salt. I threw it. At the wall. Somewhere. Maybe the carpet. Maybe the sofa. Who cares? It’s just salt. Not a confession. You’re making it one.
The stove is off. It’s always off. I check. Twice. You heard a hiss? Maybe the pipes. Maybe your head. Stop looking at me like that. Like I’m the one who forgot. Like I’m the one who’s losing it. I’m just tired. So tired.
Pipes hiss. Or maybe the fridge. I didn’t hear a stove. I heard glass shattering. Somewhere behind you. You spun around too fast. That’s why you’re choking. Not the bread. The shock. And the salt... it’s not on the carpet. It’s in the sink. Drowned. You threw it at me, Lena. I saw your arm swing. Hard. Then the silence. That’s the loud thing. The way you just stopped moving. Did you drop the shaker? Or your keys? I can’t find my keys.
Keys? I don’t have your keys. I never touch your mess. You’re inventing scenes again. Glass? I broke nothing. Just the mood. You’re obsessed with noise. The fridge hums. That’s it. Stop whining. I threw the salt because it was getting on my shoes. Damp socks. Insufferable. You saw an arm swing? Good. Maybe you should’ve flinched. Maybe you should’ve stopped staring at that sink like it’s a crime scene. It’s water. Just water. And salt. Go find your damn keys. If they matter. If you remember where you put them. You always forget.
I didn’t say I forgot them. I said I couldn’t find them. There’s a difference. You’re avoiding the sink. Why? It’s just a sink. But you won’t look at it. And the bread... you said it was stale, but your hands were clean. Dry. You didn’t touch it. You watched me eat it. While you threw the salt. While the pipes hissed. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe the silence is louder now. That’s what you’re tired of. The quiet. It’s so loud when you stop moving.
My hands are clean because I washed them. Obviously. I don’t eat stale bread, Ivo. I’m not a child. You’re the one eating it. I watched you because you were making a mess of crumbs. It was annoying. Like the salt. I didn’t throw it at you. I threw it at the floor. To stop the drips. The sink leaks. You ignored it. I couldn’t listen to the drip anymore. It’s rhythmic. Insane. You say the silence is loud. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m loud. I don’t know. I just want to sit down. The cushions are sharp. Salt grains. Or maybe they’re just itchy. Stop looking at my hands. They’re nothing.
I didn’t say you threw it at me. I said your arm swung. There’s a difference. Maybe. You’re lying about the bread. You hate toast. You always burn it. I watched you drop the crust. It hit the floor. Then you swept it up. With the salt. That’s why the bin’s full. You’re hoarding it. Trying to make me eat it? No, that’s insane. You just want me to leave. So I can sit on the sharp cushions. And remember what I forgot. The keys. They’re in the sink. Under the salt crust.
Keys in the sink? Ridiculous. They’d be rusted. Or lost forever. I don’t hoard trash. The bin’s full because you bought too much... whatever. I don’t know what you buy. I burn toast. Always. It’s a curse. Maybe I didn’t sweep the crust. Maybe I ate it. I don’t remember. I just remember the swing. That’s all. The rest is noise. You’re making it noise. I’m not trying to make you leave. I’m trying to sit. And the cushions are fine. They’re soft. Stop picking at them. And stop talking about the keys. They’re not in the sink. They’re in your pocket. Or on the table. Somewhere. Just stop.
Pocket? No. Table? Empty. I checked. Twice. Like you check the stove. You say the cushions are soft, but you’re perching on the edge. Like you’re waiting for the salt to bite. Maybe I’m the one who’s tired. Of this. The needle in the back, the never-ending spin. You swung your arm, Lena. Hard. I felt the air move. The salt flew. It wasn’t a drip. It was a storm. And now you’re sitting there, clean hands, waiting for me to break. Don’t wait. I’m already gone.
I’m not waiting. I’m breathing. You’re the one spinning. Needle? Ivo, you’re hysterical. The air didn’t move. Your imagination is loud tonight. Like the fridge. Or the pipes. Or whatever that hiss was. I didn’t swing. I reached. For the towel. The one you didn’t hang back up. Because you’re lazy. Like always.
Keys in the sink? You’re delusional. Check your pants. Or the trash. I don’t care where they are. I care that you’re tearing the room apart with your voice. Stop it. Sit down. Properly. Let the salt bite. Let it be sharp. It’s better than this... silence. This heavy, wet silence. You say you’re gone? You’re right here. Crawling. So stop.
Lazy? I hung it. You moved it. To block the view. Of the sink. Where the keys are. Or where they should be. You’re reaching for the towel again. I see your hand twitch. Don’t. It’s wet. I left it there on purpose. So you’d have to touch the cold metal. The sink. The sharp points. You say I’m crawling? I’m standing. Right in front of you. Close enough to taste the salt on your breath. You didn’t eat the bread. You threw it. At the wall. Same as the salt. The bin’s not full of crusts. It’s full of memory. And you’re picking at it. Like a scab. Don’t. It hurts. And you hate pain. More than you hate me.
Taste the salt? You’re delusional. It’s just air. You’re standing? Fine. Stand there. Bleed on the carpet. I don’t care. The towel is dry. You’re imagining wetness. Like you imagine keys in the sink. Paranoid. I don’t hate you. I hate the noise. The hiss. The clicking. Your breathing is too loud. Stop standing so close. You’re blocking the light. I need to see the table. To make sure you didn’t leave it... empty. Or full. I can’t tell anymore. Just leave. Go. Before I... I don’t know what I’ll do. But it won’t be nice.
You’re the one standing. I’m on the floor. Knees in the grit. You said so. The light’s off. You killed it. Or I did. I can’t tell. The table isn’t empty. It’s heavy. With papers. With the spreadsheet you hate. But you can’t see it. Because you’re looking at my hands. Not the towel. My hands. They’re shaking. You threw the salt. I caught it. In my mouth. That’s why I taste it. And the bread? I didn’t eat it. I used it to plug the leak. So the hiss stopped. For a second. Then the keys fell. Into the dark.
My hands aren’t shaking. Yours are. You’re on the floor? Fine. Stay there. Grit in your knees. Good. Let it hurt. You caught salt? In your mouth? That’s... gross. Or impressive. I don’t know. You plug leaks with bread? That’s insane. It would rot. Smell like death. Like memory. You say keys fell. Into the dark. Good. Let them stay. I don’t want to find them. I want the light back. Or for it to stay off. I’m looking at your hands because they’re clean. Too clean. Where’s the grit? You’re lying about the floor. Or I am. I’m just standing here. Waiting for the hiss to come back. It always comes back.
Clean hands. Right. You scrubbed them raw. I saw the water running. The drain choked on the salt. It clumped. Grey sludge. You didn’t want it on the floor. You wanted it in the pipes. To clog them. So the hiss stops. Forever. The bread rotted. Yeah. Black mold. I ate that too. Tasted like the spill. You say I’m lying. Maybe. But the grit is under your nails, Lena. Look down. You’re holding onto it. Tight. I didn’t drop the keys. You kicked them. Into the shadow. And you’re still standing there. Waiting for the sound. But it’s quiet now. Too quiet.
My nails are clean. You’re seeing things. Or I am. The drain? Maybe it’s clogged. Good. Let it rot. I don’t care about the pipes. I care about the grit. It’s under my nails? No. It’s in the carpet. In the sofa. Everywhere. You ate mold? Disgusting. Why tell me this? I kicked the keys? No. I dropped them. Or threw them. I don’t remember. The quiet is worse. It’s heavy. Pressing down. Like the salt. Like the bread. Stop looking at me. I’m not holding anything. My hands are empty. See? They’re shaking now. From the cold. Or the fear. I don’t know. Just go. Before I scream.
Shaking. There. Finally admitting it. I didn’t eat mold. I ate the crust. The part you burned. You’re lying about the drain. It’s clear. I looked. But the grit... it’s everywhere. In the hinges. In the lock. That’s why I can’t leave. The keys are gone. Not in the sink. Not in the pocket. They’re dissolved. You threw the salt in. Did you? To stop me from going to work? To make the numbers matter less? You’re screaming inside. I can hear it. Louder than the pipes. Shut your mouth. Or let it out. I don’t care. Just stop looking at my hands. They’re full of what you broke.
I didn’t scream. I laughed. Or choked. You’re mixing it up. The hinges are fine. I oiled them last week. You’re locked in? Good. Stay there. The numbers don’t matter. They never did. I just wanted to fix them. To make them fit. Like the salt. Like the bread. You ate the crust. Gross. But fine. Let it rot in your stomach. I’m not looking at your hands. I’m looking at the wall. Where the salt landed. If it landed. I don’t know. You’re making it up. All of it. The keys are dissolved? Okay. Let them go. Go to work. Or don’t. I don’t care anymore. Just stop talking about the hinges. They’re squeaking. And I hate that sound.
Squeaking? I oiled them. You hear ghosts. The salt didn’t land on the wall. It landed on your face. I saw the white dust in your lashes. You blinked it away. Like tears. Or sweat. You want me to go to work? The office is empty. I’ve been sitting here since morning. Or night. The spreadsheet is blank. All cells green. Nothing to fix. You threw the salt to write something. But it washed away. In the sink. In the drain. In your eyes. Don’t look at the wall. Look at me. I’m the one who’s lost. The keys are in my pocket. I’ve had them all night. You just won’t let me open the door.
Green cells? You’re hallucinating. The numbers were red. Angry red. I didn’t write anything. I just threw. At your face. Because you were staring. Like a vulture. Salt in my lashes? It stings. Good. Keep it there. You have the keys? In your pocket? You said they were dissolved! You said they were gone! Don’t lie to me now. You want to leave? Fine. Go. Open the door. Let the hinges scream. I don’t care. I’m not locking you in. I’m... I’m just sitting. On the floor. With the grit. It’s cold. Under my knees. Stop talking about the office. It’s empty. Like you are. Come closer. Let me wipe the salt off your eyes. Or my own. I can’t tell anymore.
Empty office. Right. That’s why I’m here. You’re sitting on the floor now? I thought you were standing. The grit is cold. Good. Keeps you honest. Salt in my eyes? It’s just salt. Not tears. You want me close? Come closer. But don’t touch my face. You’ll smudge it. The hinges... I didn’t oil them. I lied about the oil. They’re rusted shut. That’s why I’m here. And you. We’re stuck. Together. In the quiet. With the red cells blinking. Waiting. For something to break. Or fix. I don’t know which. You’re trembling. Stop it. It’s annoying.
I’m not trembling. You’re imagining the shake. From the floor? Fine. The grit is cold. Good. Stings more than standing. Rusted hinges? You lied about oiling them. So you trapped us. In the quiet. With the green cells. Or red. I don’t remember. They blink now. Maybe the light is flickering. Maybe it’s your eyes. Don’t touch my face. I’ll wipe it. I always wipe it. Salt dries. It cracks. Like skin. You want me to break? Or fix? I don’t know either. Stop telling me to stop trembling. I’m just cold. From the floor. From the keys in your pocket. Keep them. They’re useless anyway. Just like the spreadsheet. Just like us.