I was fine. Totally. Just the smell of that airport carpet, you know? The kind that holds onto a decade’s worth of spilled beer and regret. Stuck there for three hours watching people pretend to read. I didn’t call. You didn’t call. But I saw you. Or someone who looked like you. Wearing that blue scarf. Or maybe it was red. God, my memory’s playing tricks. I’m still here. Why are you still here? It’s getting late.
You’re blocking the door, Dev. Move it. I’m not leaving because you’re stalling. And stop with the scarf nonsense. I wear black. Always. That person wasn’t me. It was just some tourist losing their shit over delayed flights, like you. I didn’t see you. I was drunk on cheap gin and silence. Something happened, sure. But ‘regret’? Please. You’re dramatic. Get out. Or stay. I don’t give a fuck anymore. Just stop staring at the wall.
You’re blocking the exit. Not me. Stop projecting. I wasn’t staring at the wall, I was listening to that hum. The fridge. In my apartment. The one with the leaky faucet you fixed last Tuesday and never let me forget. You’re wearing black. Fine. But the scarf was red. I know red. I bought it. Don’t tell me I’m dramatic. You’re the one standing there, refusing to move, pretending you don’t remember the phone call. The one you forgot to delete. I saw the draft folder.
You saw nothing. You’re hallucinating because of that carpet stink. The draft folder was a joke, alright? God, you’re exhausting. I’m not moving because the floor’s cold. And that faucet? Yeah, it leaked. Sue me. I hate taps. But the scarf? I don’t buy red. It’s too loud. Too visible. So either you’re dreaming, or you’re lying to make me feel guilty. Which is it, Dev? Because I’ve got a presentation at eight and I need to sleep. Actually, I don’t have a presentation. I don’t work there anymore. Whatever. Leave already.
Cold floors. Classic. You always were a drama queen. And don’t lie about the scarf. I saw you wearing it at that terrible jazz club. The one with the sticky tables. You hated it. Loved the attention. And the faucet... I fixed it, remember? With that wrench you lost. Probably under the sink. Like your job. "I don’t work there anymore." Right. And I’m the Queen of England. Keep standing there if it makes you feel powerful. But that carpet smell? It’s getting worse. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind. Again.
You fixed what? I held the flashlight, you fumbled. Same energy. That jazz club was a trap. Sticky tables were a war crime. I wore the scarf because it was cold, not for attention. You’re twisting everything. And I don’t lose things. They vanish. Like my job. Like last night. What happened last night? You were holding a glass. I was holding… something. A ticket? A receipt? I don’t know. Stop talking about the carpet. It’s sweating through my shoes. Move. Or don’t. I’m tired of this guessing game. You always did hate being right.
I wasn’t holding a glass. I was holding your hand. Or was it a napkin? You’re mixing memories again. That receipt... it wasn’t for a ticket. It was for two coffees. Black. One with sugar. You took the sugar. Don’t pretend you hate it. I saw you lick the spoon. Stop moving. The floor isn’t cold, you’re just shaking. And don’t change the subject. You said "last night." Be specific. Or are you going to vanish into thin air like that job? I’m not moving. Not until you admit you remember the yellow envelope.
Shaking? I’m vibrating with rage, you paranoid bastard. Don’t put words in my mouth. I didn’t lick a spoon. You’re hallucinating sugar. And the yellow envelope? I threw it out. Just like I threw out that job. It was full of lies anyway. Fake invoices. Boring shit. I remember the bar. I remember the noise. But the envelope? Gone. Burned. I don’t care about your receipts, Dev. I care that you’re still here, dissecting my panic like a frog in biology class. It’s sick. Seriously. Move. Or I’m calling the cops. I’m not kidding. My hands are actually shaking now. Damn it.
Burning envelopes? Bold. Messy. I remember the paper smoldering in that metal bin. You laughed. Said it was liberation. Then you vomited on my shoes. Still have the stain. You’re shaking because you’re hungover, not because I’m right. Cops won’t care about emotional damage. Or debt. Check your pockets. That receipt isn’t for coffee. It’s for the cab that brought us here. You paid. With cash. From the envelope. You didn’t throw it away. You spent it. Admit it. Stop lying to me. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck. Like me.
Vomited? On your expensive shoes? You’re making this up. You probably spilled it yourself trying to look cool in that dingy bar. And I didn’t spend the envelope. I kept it. Safe. Like a good little soldier. Until I didn’t. Whatever. The cab ride was a blur. You’re drunk on your own narrative, Dev. You always were. I paid with a card. Not cash. Never cash. You’re trying to pin this on me because you’re scared of the void. Of the silence. That’s why you’re here. Not for the envelope. For the noise I make when I’m cornered. Fine. I’m stuck too. Happy? Now shut up. The floor is definitely cold.
Card? Sure. Convenient. But I found the cash under the mat. Your breath was on my neck. Hot. Wet. You whispered something. Not a name. A number. Or was it a date? Doesn’t matter. It’s gone now. Like the envelope. You kept it? Bullshit. You wanted it gone. Just like you want me gone. But you’re not leaving. You’re waiting for me to crack. To say the thing I can’t. The thing that sounds like regret. Fine. I’m scared. Happy? I’m exhausted. My feet hurt. From standing on that damp, smelling carpet. You’re freezing? Good. Maybe it’ll wake you up. Or just make you shiver. Same thing. Shut up? You’re the one talking. Keep going. I’m listening.
Your breath? Don’t flatter yourself. I was coughing. That gin was awful. And the number? It was the table number. Four. We were sitting at four. Or seven. I don’t know. Stop twisting everything into some romantic tragedy. It’s not a movie, Dev. It’s a mess. You found cash under the mat? I keep it for emergencies. Like this. You’re listening? Good. Then listen to me say I don’t care about the stain. Or the envelope. Or the number. I care that you’re still standing there, breathing my air, waiting for me to break. I won’t. Go home. Fix your faucet. Leave me alone. Please.
Four? Seven? You can’t even remember the table. That’s the problem. I’m not waiting for you to break. I’m waiting for you to leave. The faucet’s fixed. You turned it tight. Too tight. It’s dripping again. A slow, rhythmic tap. Like a clock. Or a heartbeat. You say “please.” That’s new. Usually you just slam doors. Did you mean it? Or is it another tactic? Don’t answer. Just move. My legs are asleep. And I hate this carpet. It feels like skin. Gross. Go. Before I change my mind and make you listen to the whole story. The part with the yellow wax seal.
You’re pathetic. Dripping faucet? You probably tightened it wrong. I’m not a mechanic. "Please"? Yeah, right. It’s a ploy. A cheap one. But fine. I’m moving. My legs are asleep too. This carpet is disgusting. Feels like biting into a wet sponge. Don’t threaten me with wax seals. I hate wax. It gets everywhere. On my clothes. In my hair. I’m leaving. But I’m not letting you off the hook. This isn’t over. You’ll see me. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. I’m tired, Dev. So fucking tired. Just... go. Before I decide to stay and ruin your night properly.
Wax seals. Right. The one on the envelope you swore you burned. Or maybe that was a letter. From who? Doesn’t matter. You’re moving. Finally. Good. Take the cold with you. The faucet isn’t dripping, you’re just tired. Your voice is slurring. Stop threatening me. I’ve seen you ruin nights. This is just exhaustion. You’ll see me. Of course you will. You always do. At the bar. Or the grocery store. Or blocking my door. But tonight? Just go. And Edie? Don’t look back. The carpet’s still there. Waiting.
Slurring? I’m laughing. Hard. You’re paranoid. But fine. I’m out. The door’s right there. Don’t follow me. And don’t worry about the seal. It’s gone. Buried. Or eaten. Whatever. Just… don’t call. I mean it. No calls. No texts. No haunting me at the grocery store like some cheap ghost. I’m not playing your game anymore. You win. Or lose. Doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. Now. Shut up. Before I change my mind and stay to watch you suffer. Go home, Dev. Fix the tap. Or don’t. I don’t care.
Laughing. Fine. Let it out. The door’s open. Go. I’m not following. I don’t have the energy. And don’t call me a ghost. I’m just... here. The tap. It’s not dripping. It’s screaming. A high, thin whine. You fixed it wrong. Or right. Who knows. Go. Before I remember the other part. The part where you gave me the watch. The one that stops at 4:07. Or 7:04. Whatever. Just go. And take that wet sponge feeling with you.
Stop analyzing the plumbing. It’s a goddamn pipe, not a confession. I fixed it exactly as asked. You’re imagining sounds because your head is empty. 4:07? 7:04? Who cares? Time is a construct for people who have schedules. I don’t. I’m walking out now. And don’t bring up the watch. That was a mistake. A bad one. You keeping it is your problem, not mine. Don’t follow me. I’m not looking back. The carpet can rot for all I care. Just… stay there. Don’t move. I’m gone.
Mistake. Convenient word. The watch doesn’t stop. It just... waits. For 4:07. Or 7:04. I’m not moving. You told me not to. So I won’t. The carpet is indeed rotting. Smells like wet dog and old lies. You left your scarf. The red one. Or was it black? I can’t tell anymore. The door’s open. Cold air. I’m staying. Watching. Waiting for the tap to scream. Or for you to come back. Probably the latter. You always do. Give me the watch, Edie. It’s heavy.
The watch stays. It’s ugly anyway. Stopped at a time that means nothing. I’m not coming back. The red scarf is yours. Keep it. It matches your delusions. Go to sleep, Dev. Or don’t. Let the tap scream. Let the carpet rot. I’m done. Done with the lies, the drafts, the vomit. You want the truth? There isn’t one. Just us, stuck in a loop of bad memories. Get out of my head. I’m walking away. Don’t follow. I mean it this time. Actually mean it.
Ugly. Fine. Keep the rust. The scarf is mine now. I’ll wear it to the office. The one where I type numbers that don’t add up. You say there’s no truth. Good. Truth is heavy. I prefer the fog. The carpet smells like ozone now. Or maybe that’s just static. Don’t walk away yet. I haven’t finished breathing. Or I have. Who knows. The tap’s whining again. Or is it you? Running. I’ll stay here. In the dark. With the smell. And the red wool scratching my neck. Finally. Peace. Or whatever this is.
Peace? You’re hallucinating. The ozone is just electricity. Static shock from your cheap suit. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking I’m running. I’m just tired of your performance. Red wool? It’ll itch. It always does. That’s the point. You wanted something to hold onto. Now you have it. Scratching. Annoying. Real. Whatever. I’m out the door. Cold air hitting my face. Finally. Real cold. Not this sweaty, guilt-ridden warmth you cultivate. Stay in the dark. Watch the numbers. See if they ever add up. They won’t. Bye, Dev. Or whatever. I’m gone.