Begin a story everyone is supposed to know. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.

No, no, it was nine years. Definitely nine. And he didn’t die in the chair; he died in the hallway outside, slumped against the vending machine. That’s why they didn’t notice for three days—the machine was humming, drowning out the silence. The lighting wasn’t the issue; it was the dust. Thick, gray, settled like snow. You remember the dust, don’t you? God, we argued about this for months. I told you it was the dust, you insisted it was the paperwork. It was the paperwork, obviously, but the dust... that’s what you notice when you’re not looking at the form. Right?

Cousin. Right. He’s always involved. And no, the machine wasn’t broken. It was loud. That’s the point. The hum masked the absence of breath. Dust takes weeks to settle that thick. You’re conflating the sterilization cycles with natural accumulation. I was there. I saw the grey layer on the armrest. It wasn’t natural. It was chemical. They scrubbed it daily. But you... you always see the grime. Always. It’s why you hate the place. Not the wait. The filth. Is that it? Or are you just trying to one-up me on the timeline again?

Fine. It’s the indifference. The way the receptionist just kept typing. That’s what stuck. I’m not deciding what you hate. I’m saying you’re focusing on the wrong variable. The chair was ergonomic, by the way. Or so they claimed. Plastic mesh. Unforgiving. That’s why he slumped. Not the machine. The mesh dug into his spine until he just... ceased. You always romanticize the inanimate objects. The hum, the dust. It’s always the atmosphere. It’s never the person who signed the death certificate. Who was it, anyway? The guy with the sneeze? I think it was him.

Balding guy. Right. Dr. Aris. He didn’t just not look up; he stared at his reflection in the window. That’s the part you’re missing. It wasn’t indifference. It was vanity. He was checking his hairline while the man died. The mesh was fine, by the way. Orthopedic grade. You’re mistaking the weight of the body for the failure of the seat. And Aris wasn’t vain. He was tired. You want him to be a monster because it’s easier than admitting the form didn’t matter. But you know it mattered. That’s why you’re still here, arguing about the chair.

I didn’t invent it. It was on the clipboard. Aris. Clear as day. You’re just avoiding the name because it sounds like a joke. And you’re not arguing about the chair or the name. You’re arguing because you’re scared I’m right about the vanity. That he saw him. That it was a choice. If it was just bureaucracy, it’s impersonal. But if he looked up… if he saw the body and kept checking his reflection… that’s personal. That’s why you can’t sleep. Not the dust. The eye contact. Did he? Or did he really not look? Because I remember him looking. Right into mine. Don’t lie to me now.

Cousin. Right. We’re both just parrots now. Stupid, repetitive parrots. I didn’t say I was there. I said I remember him looking. That’s different. I’m not lying. I’m... I’m trying to pin this down before it dissolves again. You always run when the story gets sharp. Coffee. Of course. Anything to avoid the part where he actually saw you. Or me. Or the form. Doesn’t matter. You’re leaving. Just like him. Slumped against the machine. Humming. Dust settling. God, you’re exhausting. Make it black. And don’t say a word about the sugar.

Into mine? No. I said into the room. It was bright. Harsh. You’re making it personal again. Always do. I’m not sitting there. I’m standing by the door, which is why I saw the reflection clearly. You were in the corner, fidgeting. That’s why you missed it. You were too busy thinking about the chair. So go. Get the coffee. And don’t come back with that look. The one that says I’m gaslighting you. I’m not. I’m just trying to remember who looked up. Because if he didn’t, then it’s just a building. And I can’t handle buildings right now. The light at the office... it’s the same color.

Two minutes? Don’t joke. You know how fast they dissolve. I’ll sit here. I’ll stare at the table. Maybe I’ll trace the scratch near the leg. The one that looks like a river. Or a vein. God, that’s gross. I meant a river.

And the office light isn’t daytime. It’s fluorescent. Buzzing. You always pretend it’s natural. It’s not. It’s that sterile, dead white. The same as the hallway. The same as the form. You’re rushing. Why? Are you afraid if you stay, you’ll remember the sneeze guy’s actual name? Or are you just hungry? Because I’m not hungry. I’m just... waiting for the hum to stop. It never does.

Eleven years. You’re slipping. It was nine. I counted. Every day. The river vein thing is cliché, by the way. Lazy. But sure. Sit with it. I will. I’ll trace it until my finger wears down to the bone. And you’re right. It never stops. The hum. The buzzing. It’s in my teeth now. Even here. Even now. I thought I left it at the door. Foolish. You always said I didn’t know how to leave things behind. You were right. Again. Damn it. Get the coffee. And bring it back before I forget why I was sitting here in the first place. Or who I was supposed to be waiting for. Was it you? Or him? The balding one?

Me. Right. I’m glad we agree. For once. You’re the constant. The rest is noise. The hum, the dust, the clerk who isn’t there. Just you and the table. And the vein. I’m tracing it. It’s getting thinner. Or maybe my hand is shaking. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say anything. But you heard it. You always hear it. The part I don’t say. The part where I ask if he was real. Or if I just made up the name Aris to fill the silence. Which is worse? That he was real and ignored me? Or that I’m alone here, talking to a ghost I invented? Go. Get the coffee. Before I start crying. Or laughing. It’s hard to tell the difference lately.

Machine down the hall. The loud one. Yes. I know it. It’s the one that kicks when it starts. Everyone knows that one. You’re right. I’m not talking to a ghost. I’m talking to you. Stop looking at me like I’m cracking. I’m not cracking. I’m just… tired. Of the counting. Of the years. Nine. Eleven. Who cares. It’s the coffee. Make it black. Or I will. Or I won’t. I’m forgetting how I take it. You always say black. Is that true? Or did you just say it to shut me up? Go. Before I start crying. Or laughing. It’s hard to tell the difference. Two minutes. Don’t make me wait longer.

Black. Good. Don’t trip. The floor’s slick. Or is it dry? I can’t tell anymore. The lighting is playing tricks. Flat, no shadows. Like the office. Like the waiting room. Nine years. Eleven. It’s all the same now. I’m tracing the vein. It’s leading somewhere. Or nowhere. You’re gone. The hum is louder. Or quieter. Hard to say. Don’t look back. I’m fine. I’m just sitting. Waiting for the coffee. Or the end. Or the form. Which one was it? The form or the machine? You said the machine. I said the form. You’re right about the machine. It kicks. I forgot that part. It always kicks. Go.

Fine. I’m fine. Stop checking. You always check. Like I’m fragile. I’m not fragile. I’m just… stuck. In the vein. In the hum. In the nine years. Or eleven. It doesn’t matter. The machine kicks. I know it kicks. I’m not stupid. Go. Get the coffee. And don’t you dare bring back sugar. Or milk. Or anything that looks like hope. Just black. Like the silence. Like the form. Like the way he looked at us. Or didn’t. Two minutes. Not a second more. If you’re late, I’ll start again. The name. The chair. The dust. I’ll make you listen. You know I will.

Going. Fine. The vein is fading. Or maybe I’m losing my grip. It’s smooth now. Too smooth. Like the desk. Like the certificate. Aris. No. Balding. He didn’t sign it. He just watched. That’s the part that’s eating me. Not the wait. The watching. I’m sitting here. Alone. With the hum. And the coffee smell hasn’t reached us yet. Or has it? It’s always there. Waiting. Like him. Don’t hurry. But don’t lag. Two minutes. If you’re late, I’ll scream. You know I will. I’m not bluffing. The chair is hard. The floor is hard. Everything is hard. Except you. You’re... you’re coming. Right?

Coming. Good. The word sticks. Like the hum. Like the dust. You always come back. Even when I’m unbearable. Especially then. I’m not sitting here hoping. I’m sitting here waiting. There’s a difference. Hope is for people who believe the form will matter. I know it won’t. It’s just paper. And ink. And a name that changes every time we blink. Aris. Balding. The sneeze guy. It’s all the same blank stare. But you… you look up. That’s the curse. You actually see me. So don’t rush. Or do. Just bring the coffee. And the truth. If you have any left.

Machine. Right. No truth in the gears. Just heat and grinding metal. I’ll sit. I’ll watch the door. I’ll watch the light. It’s changing. Shifting. From flat to... yellow? No, that’s just the dregs in the pot. Or my eyes. You’re late. Two minutes is up. Or hasn’t started. I’m losing track. The vein on the table is gone. Smooth wood. Polished. Clean. Too clean. They scrubbed it. Daily. Aris watched. He watched me watching you. That’s the loop. You go, I wait, you return, I forget. Repeat. Nine years. Or eleven. Doesn’t matter. The coffee is black. It’s always black. Bring it. Before the hum stops. Or starts. I can’t tell anymore.

Black. Good. You actually came back. I wasn’t sure. The cup is warm. Hot, even. It burns my fingers. Good. I need the burn to know I’m here. Not in the waiting room. Not in the nine years. Here. With you. The machine is still humming outside. Or maybe that’s just my head. You didn’t bring truth. Just coffee. Fine. Truth is overrated. It’s just another form anyway. Another signature. Another balding man who didn’t look up. Drink yours. Or don’t. You’re just standing there. Watching me drink. Like I’m the one who might dissolve. I’m not. I’m solid. Concrete. Like the floor. Like the chair. Like the vein I traced until it vanished. You did that. You made it vanish. By coming back. Is that a trick?

Cold. Right. That’s the real enemy. Not the dust. Not the name. The temperature dropping. I’m drinking. It’s bitter. Good. Burns the throat. Keeps me here. You’re standing too close. Or too far. I can’t tell. The light is still flat. Still humming. You said no trick. But you brought the coffee. You stayed. That’s the trick. You make me believe I’m real for two minutes. Then you leave again. Nine years of this. Or eleven. I’m holding the cup. Tight. Like a weapon. Or a lifeline. Which is it? Don’t answer. Just stand there. Let me pretend it’s not cold yet.