It’s not the third floor, Pia. It’s always the third floor in those pamphlets, but it’s the basement. The one behind the server room. We all pretend it’s a storage closet, but you know it’s not. That was the mistake. You keep saying the light was off, but it was buzzing. A bad hum. Like a radiator with air in it. We didn’t knock. That’s the part they leave out. We just turned the handle. Cold steel. I still feel the shock of it in my thumb.
You’re mixing up the incidents. The basement one had the humming, sure, but that was after the audit. We knocked on the third floor door—actually, I did. You were standing back, arms crossed, looking annoyed. The handle wasn’t cold steel; it was that cheap, flaky plastic that smells like burning dust. And the light wasn’t off. It was flickering. That’s why we went in. You saw the flicker, that’s why you grabbed my elbow. Don’t rewrite the trauma to make yourself look braver than you were.
My arms weren’t crossed. I was holding my coffee. The plastic handle didn’t smell like dust, Pia, it smelled like that cheap office cleaner they use on the breakroom counters. And I didn’t grab your elbow. You lunged. Everyone remembers you lunging. The flickering light? That was just the sensor failing. We knew the third floor sensor was busted since the renovation. I’m telling you, the door was locked from the inside. You said it wasn’t. You swore it was unlocked. We both heard the click. Don’t tell me I’m rewriting this to look brave. I was terrified. That’s why I didn’t go in. That’s why you did.
You held the coffee? Please. Your hands were shaking so hard you dropped the lid. And it wasn’t the sensor, it was the bulb. That old filament was dying. I know because I changed it last Tuesday. You’re lying about the lock. I heard the latch click open, not lock. You’re trying to make me the idiot who barges in. But you stood there. paralyzed. I had to go. The air in there was thick. Like, actually thick. You can deny the elbow grab, but you can’t deny I came out pale.
You didn’t change the bulb. I was there. I saw you up on the ladder with that ratchet. You weren’t changing anything; you were shaking so bad you nearly dropped the wrench on my head. And the lid? I caught it. Barely. Spilled half my latte on my shoes. Nice shoes, Pia.
And I wasn’t paralyzed. I was waiting for you to realize you were making a scene. The air wasn’t thick. It smelled like ozone. Like burnt wires. You came out pale because you ran into a wall. There’s a pillar right there. I heard the thud. Don’t tell me I’m gaslighting you about the sound. We both heard the thud.
You’re hallucinating the ratchet. I was holding a screwdriver. And you didn’t catch the lid. It hit the floor. That’s why we slipped. The ozone smell? That was the server room cooling units. They ramp up when the basement fridge kicks on. And I didn’t hit a pillar. I hit the doorframe. You’re inventing physics to excuse your absence. I heard the thud, yes. But it wasn’t me. It was the coffee cup. Rolling. Under the vending machine. You heard it too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.
You were holding a screwdriver? In the dark? Don’t be ridiculous. It was a flashlight. The beam was cutting through the dust. And the fridge doesn’t kick on until midnight. It was afternoon. You’re confusing the basement event with the breakroom incident. The cup didn’t roll under the vending machine. It shattered. Against the wall. Near the fire exit. I remember the shards. I stepped over them. You? You stepped over nothing. You were staring at the door. Don’t tell me I’m inventing physics. You’re the one who thinks the air was thick. It was dry. Bone dry. Like a desert. I can still feel the static in my hair.
Stop it. You’re fabricating details to win a argument about a storage closet that doesn’t exist. There was no flashlight. I had my phone, screen cracked from the drop. And the air wasn’t dry. It was humid. You felt static because you were wearing that cheap polyester shirt that generates electricity like crazy. You stepped over shards? I remember the floor being wet. From condensation. You’re confusing the server room’s humidity with the breakroom’s dry heat. And stop acting like you were the calm observer. You were the one who hyperventilated. I can still hear you wheezing. Admit it.
It was a Mac. The screen wasn’t cracked, it was just smeared with grease. And I wasn’t hyperventilating. I was wheezing from the smoke. There was smoke, Pia. You can’t deny the smoke. It was coming from under the door. Gray, thin, smelling of wet ash. Your shirt wasn’t polyester. It was cotton. It was sweat that made it cling. And I didn’t wheeze. I choked. On the dust. You’re remembering the breakroom fire. The one from ’09. This was yesterday. Or last week. The timeline is mush. My throat is still tight thinking about it. Did we go in? Did we ever actually open it? Or did we just stand there until the security guard came?
Smoke? You’re crazy. The air was crystal clear. I remember wiping my forehead because of the sweat, sure, but there was no smoke. You’re conflating the ’09 breakroom fire with this. That was real smoke. Acrid. This was nothing. And I wore polyester. Always do. Cotton wrinkles too much for my taste. You choked? No, you were quiet. Too quiet. That’s what freaked me out. We didn’t go in. We never opened it. We stood there until Dave came by with his keys. He unlocked it. We didn’t even try. You just watched me stand there. Pathetic.
Dave? Dave doesn’t have keys to the third floor. He has fobs. For the lobby. You’re making up characters to fill the silence. And I wasn’t quiet. I was holding my breath. Waiting to see if the handle would turn. It didn’t. That’s the thing you can’t admit. The door was stuck. Jammed. You pushed until your knuckles turned white. I didn’t watch you. I was looking at the floorboards. They were warped. From the humidity you claim wasn’t there. Dave came by with a clipboard. Not keys. He told us to move along. We walked away. That’s it. No magic, no smoke. Just bad office design. And your terrible taste in shirts.
Dave had keys. For the restricted areas. He wore them on a lanyard. You’re lying about the fobs. And the door wasn’t stuck. I pushed it. It opened. Two inches. Just enough to see the darkness. The floorboards were warped, yes. Water damage from the pipe leak in ’08. You’re confusing the timeline again. Dave didn’t have a clipboard. He had a half-eaten sandwich. He told us to get back to work. We didn’t walk away. We ran. That’s the truth. You can’t admit we ran. It makes you look weak.
I didn’t run. I jogged. Back to the desk. You sprinted. You tripped over the rug in the hallway. I saw you. Flat on your face. Dave had a sandwich. It was a bagel. With cream cheese. He didn’t say a word. He just ate. We didn’t run. We walked quickly. Briskly. Like we meant it. The door opened two inches? No. It didn’t budge. I pushed it. It moved maybe a millimeter. Rust. Corrosion. The humidity you love so much. Eating the hinges. You tripped. I stood there. Waiting for you to get up. Don’t say we ran. We fled. Dignified retreat. That’s what it was.
You tripped. Face down. In the velvet runner. I had to pull you up. Your face was in the carpet, Pia. You didn’t sprint, you scrambled. And Dave? He was glaring. He didn’t eat the bagel. He tossed it in the bin. Crust first. We didn’t walk briskly. We power-walked. Shoulders hunched. Like guilty children. And the door didn’t budge. It stuck fast. Rust. Exactly as you said. I’m just saying, my dignity wasn’t entirely intact when I dragged you out. But you’re right about the rust. The hinges were seized. I tried to force it. That’s why my knuckles hurt for a week. You’re memorizing the damage, not the moment.
You dragged me? Please. I pulled myself up. My hands were shaking so bad I couldn’t grip your wrist. And the velvet runner? That was the hallway rug. Beige. Stained with coffee. Not velvet. You’re romanticizing the grime. Dave didn’t glare. He looked bored. Tossing the bagel was just habit. He hates waste, even when he’s annoyed. My knuckles hurt because I hit the wall. You said you hit the doorframe. I hit the wall. Two feet left. You’re mixing up the impact points. And the hinges? Yeah, they were rusted. But not seized. Just stiff. You forced it. I didn’t touch it. I just watched. Dignity is overrated, Pia. We were just two idiots in a hallway. Don’t make it a tragedy. It was just Tuesday.
You hit the wall? With what? Your elbow? You were staring at the floorboards, remember? And the rug was definitely velvet. It snagged my pant leg. That’s why I tripped. You’re rewriting the fabric to fit your narrative. Dave’s boredom is legendary. He didn’t toss the bagel; he finished it. Slowly. Crumbs on his shirt. Classic Dave. And I didn’t force the hinges. I jiggled them. Like you do when you’re trying to open a stubborn jar. It’s absurd. We’re arguing over a door that doesn’t exist. My knuckles don’t hurt. My shoulder does. From carrying your ego all morning.
Shoulder? You’re the one with the shoulder impingement from that lift in ’08. And I didn’t stare at the floorboards. I was looking at Dave. His crumbs were on his tie. Silk. Stains right through. That’s the detail you miss. The rug wasn’t velvet. It was looped nylon. Stiff. Your pant leg didn’t snag; you caught your toe on the edge. Classic tripping. And I didn’t jiggle the hinges. I pulled. Hard. You were twisting. Like a doorknob. My ego is fine, Pia. It’s your memory that’s fraying. You’re remembering the office party, not the hallway. We weren’t even in the same building that day. We were at the conference. You don’t remember the keynote? That’s the real loss.
Conference? Don’t be absurd. We were at the office. The keynote was last month. You’re mixing up the annual retreat with this Tuesday. And it wasn’t a silk tie. Dave wears polyester blends that pill if you look at them wrong. Silk would’ve slid right off his shoulders. And I didn’t twist the knob. I turned it. Like a person. You pulled because you were trying to pry it open. Like a child with a stuck jar lid. Your ego isn’t fine. You’re terrified I remember the way you looked when you realized the door wouldn’t open. That you were stuck. Just like the hinges.
Stuck? I wasn’t stuck. I was waiting for the right moment. You’re the one who thought it was a jar lid. I was checking the seal. Dave’s tie wasn’t silk. It was scratchy. Cheap. You can feel the pilling if you remember. And the retreat? That was in July. This was February. The heating vents were blasting. That’s why the air was dry. You’re mixing up the seasons. And I wasn’t terrified. I was annoyed. That you couldn’t handle a simple door. It’s not about the door, Pia. It’s about control. You never had any. That’s why you’re still here, arguing about hinges.
Control? I had control. I was the one opening the door. You were just standing there, arms crossed, judging my technique. And the vents weren’t blasting. It was February. It was cold. That’s why we were all wearing coats. You’re lying about the heat. And Dave’s tie wasn’t scratchy. It was smooth. You’re just trying to make him sound cheap so you can feel superior. Which you are. Superiorly wrong. We weren’t at the conference. We were in the hallway. Trying to get to the bathroom. You needed to go. I could tell by the way you shifted your weight. Admit it. You just wanted to pee.
I needed to pee? Please. I had just had three coffees. I was hydrating. And I wasn’t shifting my weight. I was leaning against the wall. Exhausted. The vents weren’t blasting. They were dead. Dead air. That’s why it was cold. You’re freezing your ass off in that coat. And Dave’s tie was smooth. Like plastic. You’re making it sound expensive. It wasn’t. It was cheap. I can feel the texture in my mind. Smooth. Slippery. And we weren’t trying to get to the bathroom. We were trying to get to the printer. The one that jams. Always jams. That’s why we were there. Not to pee. To print the spreadsheets. You don’t remember the spreadsheets?
Spreadsheets? You hate spreadsheets. You think they’re for people who can’t draw. And you weren’t leaning on the wall. You were pacing. Like a caged animal. The printer wasn’t jammed. It was offline. "Service Required." That’s why we were there. To fix it. Not print. Fix. And Dave’s tie was plastic. Glossy. Reflective. Like a cheap toy. You’re remembering the texture wrong. It wasn’t slippery. It was tacky. Sticky. Like it had been glued to his neck. And you weren’t tired. You were wired. From the coffee. The three coffees. You were vibrating. Admit it. You wanted to scream. Not pee. Scream. Into the hallway.
I wasn’t pacing. I was standing still. You were the one who couldn’t stop moving. And the printer wasn’t offline. It was on. But the paper tray was empty. We went to get paper. Not fix it. We don’t fix shit. That’s IT’s job. Dave’s tie was tacky. Like glue. You’re right about that. I hate that he smells like adhesive. And I wasn’t wired. I was buzzed. The coffee was cold. Stale. Sitting there for hours. I didn’t want to scream. I wanted to go home. That’s it. Just go home. You’re making me sound like a villain in some low-budget thriller. It was just a hallway. And a door. And bad tie. That’s all.
You went home? You’re still here. Typing this. I’m right in front of you. Or I was. You wanted to go home, sure. But you stayed because you were scared to walk alone past the server room. The door. The one that doesn’t exist. You’re confusing the hallway with the stairwell. And the printer? It was jammed. With red paper. Marketing’s disaster. We didn’t get paper. We ran. Back to our desks. Head down. Pretending we worked. Dave didn’t smell like glue. He smelled like onion. You’re lying about the tie to avoid admitting you saw the light under the door. You saw it. And you looked away.