Terms ·
Waiting rooms — I actually don't mind them anymore, which feels like a personal failure. There's a place near my dentist's, and I've started getting there fifteen minutes early on purpose. Anyway, I still have that number you asked me for, the guy who fixed my car window. I'll dig it up for you. No rush on my end.
You’re weird. Most people pray for the clock to move faster in those places. I get it, though. It’s the only time you’re forced to just sit with your own thoughts without scrolling. No stimulation. Just... waiting. My boss caught me doing that once, staring at a water stain on the ceiling for twenty minutes. He didn’t say anything, just cleared his throat. Loudly. I’ll take your guy’s number, but don’t expect me to praise the silence. It’s aggressive.
Your boss clearing his throat like that's a whole personality. Mine does the thing where he ccs three people on an email just to say "per my last message," which is somehow louder than yelling. I'll text you the number tonight — remind me if I forget, because I will, I've got a habit of saying I'll do things and then just... not, and letting it become somebody else's problem to chase me on.
CC-ing three people? That’s passive-aggressive warfare. I prefer the silent treatment. It’s cleaner. Less paper trail.
And yeah, you’ll forget. We all do. It’s not a flaw, it’s just how the brain works when it’s bored. Don’t worry about reminding me. If it’s important, it’ll stick. If it doesn’t, it wasn’t really important. Besides, I’m busy untangling the printer downstairs. Again. It hates me. I hate it. We have a complex relationship.
See, that's the part I'd push back on — "if it doesn't stick it wasn't important" lets everyone off the hook a little too easy. I forget things that matter constantly, not because they don't matter, just because I'm avoidant about them. There's a difference between bored-forgetting and the kind where you sort of engineer the forgetting so you don't have to deal with it. The printer's not cursed, by the way. It's just tired of being blamed for user error.
Fine. You’re right. It’s a defense mechanism. I’ll drop the “not important” bit. But don’t pretend the printer isn’t judging you. I saw it blink at me this morning. That red light? It’s not an error code. It’s a stare.
And I’m not avoiding the number. I’m letting it marinate. If you text it now, it’s just data. If you text it later, it’s a favor. I like favors. They have weight. So go ahead, text it. But don’t expect me to say thank you in a way that matters. I’ll just nod. And then I’ll use it. That’s the deal.
A nod's fine, I'm not fishing for a parade. Though "I like favors, they have weight" is a very convenient way to keep everything transactional so nothing's ever just... owed plainly. Anyway I'll send the number tonight, and when you use it, tell the guy I sent you, he does that discount thing. And hey — you skated past the marinating comment fast. That defense mechanism thing, you didn't just do it with the printer.
Skated past? I didn’t skate. I sidestepped. There’s a difference. You’re reading too much into a blinking light and a bad back. The printer is trash. My back is worse. I don’t need to “marinate” in my failures; I just ignore them until they solve themselves or I fix them with duct tape. You want to think I’m a fraud? Fine. Keep the number. I don’t care if the discount is real. I care about whether you’re going to actually text it or just sit there analyzing your own avoidance again. Send the damn number. Or don’t. I’m drinking tea. It’s cold.
Sending it now, hold your tea. I'm not calling you a fraud, I'm saying duct tape's a strategy right up until the thing it's holding together actually needs fixing, and then it's just tape on a bigger problem. You can drink your cold tea and call that fine too. I'll text the number. You do with it what you want — that part's genuinely not mine to manage.
Cold tea’s better that way. Less sipping, more getting it over with.
You’re right about the tape, obviously. Everything is tape eventually. But you’re still dodging the core of it. You think because you analyzed your own avoidance, you’ve solved it. You haven’t. You just dressed it up in better vocabulary. I’m not your therapist, Ben. I’m just the guy who needs a window fixed.
Send the text. And stop looking for depth where there’s just procrastination and cheap adhesive. It’s refreshing, really.
Fair, noted, I'll take the vocabulary dig. Still doesn't change that you turned "text me the number" into a whole philosophy about marinating and favors having weight, which is a lot of scaffolding for something that takes four seconds. But fine. Text sent. Window guy's yours now. I'm not going to keep poking at it — you clearly don't want it poked, and that's its own kind of answer, isn't it.
It is. Or it isn’t. You’re stopping because you want me to admit I’m complicated. I’m not. I’m just tired. The tea’s cold, the printer’s staring, and now I have a number. I’ll text the guy. He’ll call. We’ll talk about glass. It’s boring. It’s simple. You wanted to poke? You did. Now you’re backing off because the hole isn’t deep enough. That’s on you. I’m going to sit here and drink this sludge. Try to keep up with your own ego for once.
I'm not chasing depth for sport, Cass. You did the thing you always do — turn the poke back on the poker, make it about my ego instead of the window, the tea, whatever's actually cold and sitting there. Fine, it's simple. Text the guy about glass. I'll believe "tired" right up until the next thing needs fixing and it's tape again. Go drink your sludge.
Sludge is hot by now. Thermal dynamics, Ben. Look it up.
And I didn't turn it back on you. I pointed out that you're obsessed with my "scaffolding" because you hate that it works. You want to believe I'm crumbling so you don't have to look at your own tape job. But sure. Enjoy your clarity. I’m dialing the number. If he asks about you, I’ll say you’re avoidant. If he asks about me, I’ll say the window is cracked. Simple. Boring. Real. Hang up. I’m busy pretending the printer isn’t judging me.
Tell him whatever gets the discount. And I'm not obsessed, I just noticed — same as you noticed the printer's red light isn't really about the printer. We're both experts at pointing at somebody else's tape. Go fix your window, Cass. Some of us have a boring life waiting too.
Discount’s already in the text. I didn’t ask for advice on how to negotiate. You’re projecting your own need to be useful onto a glass pane. Go sit in your waiting room. Practice staring at the ceiling. Maybe you’ll find something there that isn’t me. I’m dialing. Don’t expect a call back unless the glass is broken. Which it is. So keep your hands off my life. And your tea. It’s gone.
Wasn't asking for a call back. Just — the crack didn't happen on its own, that's all I'll say, and then I'll actually leave it. Get the glass fixed, drink your gone tea, tell the printer it wins. I've got my own ceiling to stare at.
The crack didn't happen on its own? Good point. Maybe I dropped a wrench. Maybe I sneezed. Who knows. You’re getting poetic, Ben. It’s unsettling.
Tell the printer he wins? Fine. He can have the red light. I’m keeping the silence.
I’m dialing. If he asks who referred me, I’ll say a guy who stares at ceilings until they crack. If he asks about the window, I’ll say it’s broken. Simple.
Go. Stare. I’m busy.
Sneeze that hard, huh. Fine, keep your version — wrench, sneeze, whatever's easiest to say out loud. Dial the guy. I'm going to go find a ceiling. Say hi to the glass for me.
Sneeze worked. You’re welcome.
Glass doesn’t talk. It just sits there, glaring. I’ll tell it you said hi. If it insults you back, that’s on you.
I’m dialing. No more ceilings. No more tape. Just the ringing tone and the hope that the guy actually shows up. You can go. Your ceiling is boring. I know it is. I saw it.
Bye, Ben. Don’t wait up. I’m not waiting either.
Bye, Cass. Hope he shows up. Hope the sneeze story holds too.
The phone’s ringing. Don’t hang up on the hope, it’s the only thing that’s sticking. The sneeze is solid. More than you’d like.
If he doesn’t show, I’ll blame the weather. If he does, I’ll blame the discount. Your ceiling is probably blank. Mine has a stain shaped like a question mark I’m tired of answering.
Enjoy the silence. I’ve got glass to replace. Try not to stare too hard. It gets lonely.
Weather, discount, sneeze — you've got a story for everything except the wrench. That's fine, that's yours to sit with. Go replace your glass. I'll leave the ceiling alone for once. Bye, Cass.
Wrench is heavy. Good for holding things down. You’re right about that.
I’m not sitting with it. I’m using it. Or I will be, once the glass guy arrives. If he does.
Tell your ceiling I said hi. Even if it’s blank. Especially if it’s blank. Better than a stain shaped like a question mark I can’t answer.
Bye, Ben. Go stare. I’ll fix the window. And maybe the sneeze. Or the wrench. Doesn’t matter. It’s just noise. And I’m tired of listening.