Everyone gets roundabouts wrong. They think it’s about yielding, like some polite little dance. It’s not. It’s about aggression wrapped in a circle. You don’t yield; you assert. I saw this once, back in Jersey, some bastard in a rusted sedan just plowed through because he had the right of way but no soul. You remember that? No, you were too busy pretending you knew how to drive. It’s chaos, Dev. Beautiful, circular chaos.
Jersey? You’re mixing it up with that wreck near O’Hare. I was there. It wasn’t a sedan, it was a white Ford Taurus, dead green. He didn’t have right of way; he was coming from the wrong ramp entirely. I remember the sound—metal tearing like paper. Not beautiful. Ugly. Loud. My ears rang for two days.
You always did overstate the drama. It’s just traffic. Aggression is boring. Predictable. The real chaos is silence. Like when the brakes fail on the I-95 overpass last Tuesday. No honking. Just sliding. I watched three cars stack up without a single scream. That’s when you realize nobody’s in control. The circle eats you. I still check my mirrors when I walk past the bakery. Paranoia? Maybe. Or just memory.
Taurus? It was a Corolla. You’re filling in blanks with whatever you want to believe. And I-95? Please. I was stuck behind that truck for three hours, horn blaring, sweat dripping. No silence there, just noise and rage. You’re romanticizing the void because you couldn’t handle the honking. Now you’re stalking bakeries? That’s not paranoia, Dev, that’s retirement. Go home.
Corolla? I saw the license plate. 7XJ-492. You were too busy screaming at the guy in the Prius to notice the paint. And I wasn’t behind a truck. I was in my own car, trying to call my boss about the Henderson account that’s still burning a hole in my pocket. Three hours? More like forty minutes. You exaggerate everything. It’s a talent.
Retirement? I’m thirty-four. The bakery is on 4th, not where you think. I buy rye there. Tuesday. Don’t make it weird. I just like the quiet. The noise you remember is probably just your own blood rushing in your ears. Try closing your eyes next time. See if the chaos stops. It won’t. It just gets louder. Pass the salt.
7XJ-492? That was a vanity plate for a lawyer. It wasn’t the wreck. You’re chasing ghosts, Dev. And forty minutes is an eternity in gridlock. My ears weren’t ringing from adrenaline; they were ringing from that jackhammer on 4th Street. The one they promised to fix in 2019. I still hear it when I try to sleep. Rye, huh? You always did love the dense stuff. Like you love burying yourself in details that don’t matter. Pass the salt yourself. I’m not your waitress.
Vanity plate? Please. I saw the guy wearing a neon safety vest. He wasn’t a lawyer; he was a union rep from the construction site next door. You always did confuse status with severity. And the jackhammer? That was a gas leak repair. Different noise. Higher pitch. You’re hearing what you want to hear. Or what you’re tired of hearing.
I didn’t ask for salt. I just mentioned it because the rye was stale. It happens when you buy it late. Like you buy your excuses. I’m not your enemy. I’m just the one who remembers the vest. The gridlock was forty minutes because of the light cycle, not your ego. Don’t flatter yourself. The light turned red. Everyone stopped. That’s the chaos. Not the anger. The waiting. Pass the bread. I’m hungry.
Gas leak? You’re hallucinating pipes now. I remember the dust. The sheer, choking dust. And the vest guy was arguing with a cop, not fixing a valve. You’re rewriting history because your memory hurts. Forty minutes? The light cycle was broken. Everyone knows that. The chaos isn’t waiting, Dev. It’s the futility of it. The sterile, endless red. I’m not flattered. I’m tired. You’re just hungry because you forgot to eat lunch again. Go get the bread. And stop nitpicking the pitch of the jackhammer. It was low. Fundamental. Like your current mood.
Dust? That was sawdust from the demolition on 5th. You’re conflating two different disasters. The vest guy wasn’t arguing with a cop; he was arguing with the foreman. I saw him. He had a clipboard. You never look at hands, Pia. You only look at faces. And the light was red because of the accident, not the cycle. The cycle was fine until the sensors got clogged with that sawdust.
I ate. I always eat. You’re projecting your own hunger onto me. It’s a sick little game you play. “Go get the bread.” Why? So I can come back and argue about the pitch of a noise that doesn’t exist? The jackhammer was high-pitched. Shrill. Like a dentist’s drill. Low fundamental? That’s the rumble of the city, not the tool. You’re just tired. Go to sleep. I’ll get the bread. But I’m not nitpicking. I’m remembering. There’s a difference. A big one. You’d know if you tried.
Sawdust? It was concrete. Grey, choking concrete. You’re mistaking the sound for the source because you want it to be high. It was low. It shook your teeth. And the clipboard? It was a radio. He was yelling into it. You always focus on the props, never the panic. I don’t project. I observe. You’re avoiding the noise because it sounds like the office. Go get the bread, Dev. And don’t look at my hands. You know what you’ll see. Just calluses. From work. Not from writing excuses. Move.
Concrete. Right. The grey kind that coats your lungs like wet cement. I remember the coughing. Not the sawdust. You’re right about that part. But the clipboard? I still see it. Thick, laminated. The guy wasn’t holding a radio. He was pointing at a map. Or maybe a ticket. It didn’t matter. The panic was real. I felt it. My chest tightened. Like now.
I’m not avoiding anything. I’m just tired of your version of events. You always twist the knife. Calluses? Maybe. From typing. Or driving. Who cares? The bread is gone. I ate it. All of it. Salty, stale, perfect. You’re staring at my hands again. Stop it. I’m not writing excuses. I’m living them. The office is a dumpster. But I’m not going back. Not today. Not ever. The noise is loud. But I’m still here. Breathing. Choking. Alive. That’s enough. For now.
You ate the last of it? You selfish bastard. I was saving that for the sandwich I never made. And I’m not staring at your hands. I’m staring at the lack of concrete dust on them. You’re clean. Too clean. You think you’re alive? You’re just waiting for the next red light. The office is a dumpster because you let it be one. Go back tomorrow. Or don’t. I don’t care. Just don’t come back with stale bread. It’s an insult. And stop breathing so loud. It’s distracting.
Clean? I scrubbed for an hour. Sawdust gets in the pores. You’d know if you’d ever worked a site. But sure, keep telling yourself I’m pristine. It’s easier than admitting you’re lying about the sandwich. You never made it. You ate the meat yourself while I was stuck in that gridlock. Classic Pia.
The office isn’t a dumpster. It’s just loud. Like you. And I breathe loud because I’m annoyed. The red light isn’t fate. It’s bureaucracy. You hate it. I hate it less because I pretend it’s part of the dance. You just scream at the pavement.
Go make your sandwich. Use the stale bread. It’s crusty now. Adds texture. Like your arguments. Sharp, dry, useless. I’ll be here. Waiting for the next light. Which, by the way, is green. Look. It’s always green when you’re not paying attention. Move over. You’re blocking the view.
Meat? I’m vegetarian, you paranoid maniac. Always have been. You’re hallucinating sandwiches now. And I don’t scream at the pavement; I scream because the pavement screams back. That’s the deal. You’re blocking the view because you’re sitting there clutching your clipboard ghost. It’s green? Sure. Tell yourself that. The light’s a liar. Just like you. Move your ass. You’re letting the heat in. And stop calling my arguments dry. They’re preserved. Like your memory. Rotting in a jar. Go home, Dev. Before I throw the plate.
Vegetarian? Since when? You ate that tuna melt at the diner last week. I saw the wrapper in your lap. Don’t lie to me now. You’re terrified of being caught out. The clipboard isn’t a ghost; it’s a receipt. For the coffee you spilled on my shirt. You didn’t even apologize. Just laughed. Like it was funny. Like chaos is a joke.
The light isn’t a liar. It’s a clock. Ticking down to nothing. And my memory isn’t rotting. It’s fermenting. Better. Sharper. Yours is just pickled in resentment. I’m not blocking the view. I’m blocking the heat. You’re sweating. Again. Get up. Move. I don’t care about the plate. Throw it. Break it. I’ll sweep it up. It’s what I do. Clean up your messes. Even the imaginary ones. Go home, Pia. Before I start remembering the parts you forgot. The good parts. You wouldn’t like them. They’re quiet. And you hate quiet.
Tuna melt? That was hummus. You’re blind, Dev. And the coffee stain? It was mustard. From the hot dog I ate while you were crying over your spreadsheet. You’re sweeping glass? Good. Maybe it’ll cut the delusion. Fermenting? Please. You’re just pickling in your own pity. I don’t hate quiet. I hate the silence after the crash. When everyone’s waiting for the other to move. You want the good parts? Go dig them up. I’m busy. The light’s red again. See? It always is. For you.
Hummus. Right. You eat like a bird and dress like a construction worker. Mustard? On a white shirt? It would have stained yellow. I saw orange. Mustard is yellow. You’re colorblind to the truth. Crying over a spreadsheet? I was hyperventilating. Different thing. Less dignity, more panic.
The glass cutting the delusion? Sure. Let it slice. I’m numb. You’re the one shaking. The silence after the crash is where the screaming stops. That’s when you hear the brakes. Or the radio. Or the wind. I prefer the wind. It doesn’t lie. It just blows.
Red light. Green light. It’s all the same to me now. I’m done waiting. You keep staring at the intersection. I’m walking away. The bread is stale. The plate is broken. You’re right about that. It is an insult. To anyone with a palate. I’ll take the hummus. You take the stain. We match. Poorly. Go home, Pia. The light’s red because you’re looking at it. Look away. See? It turns green.
Colorblind? You’re seeing things. Orange is red. Obviously. And I don’t dress like a construction worker; I have utility boots. There’s a difference. You hyperventilate because you’re weak. I scream because I’m alive. Walking away? Fine. Go. But don’t expect me to wait. The wind doesn’t lie, but it also doesn’t care. It just blows cold air on your delusions. Hummus and a stain. Perfect match. Go home, Dev. Before the light changes back. I’m not moving. I’m right here. Waiting for you to realize you’re the one who’s stuck.
Utility boots. Right. Like the ones buried under three inches of grey sludge. You think they’re fashion. They’re anchors. Anchors don’t move. That’s why you’re stuck. I’m walking because I’m light. And orange is orange. Red is red. You’re confusing the signal with the sky. Weak? Maybe. But I don’t hyperventilate for attention. I do it because my lungs hate the dust. The dust that isn’t there.
You’re waiting for me to realize I’m stuck? I’m already home. In my head. The wind is warm today. You just feel cold because you’re standing in the shadow of your own ego. Don’t move. Stay there. Let the light burn your retinas. I’m not coming back. The hummus was good. Stale, but good. You’ll forget the taste. I won’t. It lingers. Like the stain. Go ahead. Look away. See? It’s still red. Because you’re looking.