Sorry. I don’t know. It just feels like I should have said something. Did you see that page? The one torn out last night. It was just... blank. Or maybe it wasn’t. I could have sworn there was a name written there. Mine? No, that’s silly. Why would it be mine? You didn’t see anyone go into the kitchen, did you?
I saw you pacing. That’s all. The light under the door was on. You think I’m blind? I was in the hallway, listening to that hum. The fridge was making that noise again. Did I see anyone? Hard to say. The shadows were long. You’re worrying over nothing. A torn page. Mine? Please. Let it go, Vic. Drink your tea before it gets cold.
Pacing. Right. I was... thinking. The hum isn’t the fridge. It’s lower. In the walls. Did you hear that click? Like a lock turning. You said shadows were long. Long how? From the streetlamp? Because mine stretched all the way to the bottom step. And you weren’t in the hallway. You were under the stairs. I saw your shoe. Just the toe. Pointing at me.
You’re seeing things. Under the stairs? I was fixing the fuse box. It’s been flickering. You think I was hiding? Pathetic. The click was the boiler, Vic. It’s old. It groans. You’re paranoid. My shoe wasn’t pointing at you; it was slipping on the dust. Wipe your feet. Seriously. You’re making this up to fill the silence. Drink up.
Boiler. Right. It always sounds like a boiler when things get weird. But the fuse box is in the cellar. I heard you in the kitchen. The tea was hot. Too hot. You didn’t drink yours. You just sat there. Staring at the notebook. Why was the notebook open if you were fixing fuses? And don’t tell me about the dust. I didn’t slip. I stood very still.
You’re incredible. Really. The fuse box is in the hall closet, Vic. Not the cellar. Your memory’s going. I was checking the wiring for the lamp. The notebook was... organizing bills. That’s what it’s for. And I drank my tea. You’re just thirsty. Stop inventing stories about me standing still. It’s creepy. Go to bed. Before you trip over your own imagination.
Hall closet. Right. You always insist the fuse box is there. Maybe you’re right. I can’t remember. But the bills were in pencil. Faint. Smudged. And you didn’t drink your tea. The surface was still. Like a mirror. I watched the reflection for a long time. It didn’t match your face. Not quite. The eyes were wrong. Too wide. Did you notice? Or were you too busy fixing the lamp?
You’re exhausted. That’s all. The reflection was bad lighting. The lamp was loose. I didn’t notice my eyes because I was looking at the socket, Vic. You’re hallucinating. It’s the stress. Or the tea. Whatever you put in it. I’m going to sleep. You’re scaring me with this nonsense. Stop staring. It’s weird. Go to bed. Now.
Hallucinating. Because I’m the crazy one. Fine. I’ll go. But you didn’t answer about the socket. It was open. Just the wires, hanging out like... roots. And the tea wasn’t mine. You made it. I saw you. You stirred it. Counter-clockwise. Three times. Why? You always stir clockwise. It’s in the notebook. Page four. You tore it out because you knew I’d see. Didn’t you?
Clockwise? No. You’re confusing me with someone else. Page four? I don’t even have a page four. That’s made up. The wires were dangling. I was afraid of electrocution, not some ritual. You’re twisting everything. Even the tea direction. It’s absurd. And stop calling me out on things I didn’t do. I’m tired, Vic. Truly tired. Go to sleep. Please. Before I lose it too.
You don’t have a page four? I’m looking at it now. Page four is blank. That’s the point. You tore it out, but left the binding. It’s ugly. Jagged. You said page four was bills. Lies. All of it. You’re not tired. You’re afraid. Of what? The light? The hum? Or just me noticing? I’m not going to bed. Not until you tell me why the tea tasted like copper. Like blood. Why did it taste like that, Ivo?
Copper? It was the pipes. Old iron. You’re imagining things again. Page four is blank because I pulled it. For balance. Don’t ask why. You wouldn’t understand. The tea… maybe I dropped a coin in it. Or rusted sugar. It doesn’t matter. You’re fixated. Look at me. Just look. I’m right here. Not the reflection. Me. Stop digging. It’s ugly. Jagged. Like you said. Go away.
Balance? You tore out a page for balance? That’s not how paper works. It’s not a scale. It’s a notebook. Ivo, you’re shaking. Look at your hands. They’re dirty. Not dust. Dirt. Under the fingernails. Fresh. You said you were fixing the lamp. In the hall closet. With dirt under your nails? And the coin... which coin? It wasn’t sugar. It didn’t dissolve. I felt it hit the bottom of the cup. Hard. What did you drop in my tea?
It’s dirt from the garden. I was weeding. You’re conflating things. The coin was a quid. For the bin man. It clinked, yes. So what? You’re obsessing over copper tastes. It’s the water filtration. Stop analyzing every sip. I’m not shaking; the floorboards are uneven. Everyone knows that. Put the notebook down. You’re scaring yourself. And me. It’s just a cup. Just dirt. Go to bed, Vic. Please. Before I say something I can’t take back.
Weeding? In the dark? With the fuse box shorting? You’re lying about the gloves. I saw them in the sink. Dry. The bin man doesn’t get paid in quids anymore. It’s cash or card. Since Tuesday. You’re forgetting dates too. Or changing them. Like you changed the page. Page four. Why is it blank if it’s not bills? And why did the dirt smell like... wet wool? Like the coat you were wearing. The one you said you never took off.
Gloves were inside out. Dry because I didn’t wear them. You’re spiraling, Vic. Wet wool? That’s the rain. It’s always raining here. I took the coat off to fix the lamp. Obviously. You’re twisting facts. Tuesday? It’s Wednesday. Or was it? God, my head. The dirt is just dirt. The coat was drying. Stop smelling everything. You’re paranoid. Go to bed. Leave me alone with my shaking hands. They’re cold. That’s all. Just cold.