I should apologize, I suppose, though the fog made it impossible to see clearly. Or perhaps that is merely an excuse for arriving so late without a word. Do not tell me you were waiting for me to make sense of the silence. I remember the streetlamp flickering, and then nothing. What do you recall of the fog?
The streetlamp was just a smudge of orange in that white soup. I was probably drinking at O'Malley's before it even started. You know how it gets. I told the barman I'd been waiting hours, but my watch had stopped. Or maybe it never started. The whole night feels like a skipped track on a record. I just kept walking until the fog cleared enough to see your face. No harm done.
You did not stop to walk. You walked straight past the house, I am certain of it. The record skipped because you were not there when the needle dropped. I waited by the window while the orange smudge dissolved. Do not say no harm was done just because the fog lifted. I remember the sound of your coat, or perhaps it was only the wind against the glass. Tell me, was the barman still wiping that same glass?
He was wiping it. Same rag, same spot. I don't remember walking past the house, Lena. I remember the heat of the vodka in my throat and then suddenly I'm standing on your porch. The wind sounded like glass breaking. Or maybe it was just your coat. I didn't hear you. Why are you so fixated on the glass? I'm fine. The night is fine. Let's just order something.
The glass did not break, you forgot to mention that. I am not fixated on it; I am trying to understand why you walked past the door while the wind sounded like shattering. You feel fine, yet you cannot recall the step from the street to the porch. That is not fine. Do not order food. We need to remember what happened between the vodka and the porch before the fog clears the rest of my mind.
It wasn't shattering. Just static. And I didn't walk past the door; I was leaning against the brickwork, or maybe a tree. The vodka was good, that's all I know. Why are we dissecting footsteps? I'm not broken, Lena. I just have a gap. A blank space. Maybe you're the one who forgot to knock. Or maybe I never left the bar. Stop looking at me like that. It's just a bad night.
You were never at the bar when I saw you. The brickwork was wet, yet you claim the vodka was still warm in your throat. Do not tell me to stop looking at you when the blank space you mention is exactly where your coat should have been. If you never left the bar, then who answered the door when I finally turned the handle? The static did not come from a radio. It came from the moment you ceased to exist in my line of sight.
I answered the door. You're inventing the missing piece. The coat was dry when I stood there. The static was in my head, not the air. You're twisting the timeline because you hate the gap. I drank the vodka. I walked to the door. It's that simple. The brickwork doesn't matter. Stop trying to solve a mystery that isn't there.
You claim the coat was dry, yet the fog was thick enough to soak through wool. I did not twist the timeline; I am trying to place the brickwork where you stood. If you walked straight from the bar, why does the door handle feel cold to me and warm to you? The mystery is that we remember two different streets. Stop dismissing the gap. It is the only thing that is real.
The handle was warm. It has to be. You're remembering the cold because you wanted me to fail. I remember the warmth. The fog might have been thick, but the vodka burned hot enough to thaw the whole night. Stop checking the doorknob. It's just a door. We're both here now, dry as bones. The street doesn't matter.
The doorknob matters because it is the only place where our memories do not align. You speak of warmth, but the cold remained on my skin long after you arrived. If the vodka was hot enough to thaw the night, why did the fog return the moment you stepped inside? You are dry, yes, but you are also standing in a memory I cannot shake. Do not pretend the street does not matter when it is the only thing separating what happened from what you claim.
The fog didn't return. You're projecting the dampness. I stepped in and the heat hit me. You're still standing on the sidewalk in your mind. It's a trick of the light, Lena. The street is just pavement. The warmth was real. The cold was you. Let's drop it before you start seeing ghosts in the hallway.
The hallway has no ghosts, only the silence you left behind when you stopped speaking. If the warmth was real, why does the air still taste like wet wool? You call it a trick of the light, yet the pavement in my memory is dry while yours is slick with rain. Do not tell me to drop it when the cold you describe is exactly where the fog should have been. The warmth is the lie you tell yourself to sleep at night.
I don't sleep, Lena. That's the point. The wet wool taste is just your imagination running wild again. I remember the rain stopped. Just stopped. The pavement was dry under my boots. You're holding onto the cold because the warmth scares you. It means I was there, and I was fine. The lie is that you were ever really there at all.
You were there, but you were not fine. The rain did not stop; it simply changed the way you remembered falling. If the pavement was dry under your boots, then how did you leave wet footprints in the hallway? I did not imagine the wool; I felt it in my throat. You claim the warmth proves your presence, but it only proves you are wrong about the temperature. The lie is not my coldness; it is your refusal to admit the street was gone.
Footprints? I didn't leave wet footprints. The floor was clean. You're making up the water. That's the real lie. The street wasn't gone; it was just empty. You're the one drowning in it. Stop trying to dry off my boots. They were dry when I walked in. I'm not the one who's confused here.