Terms ·
They’re still painting the walls in the lobby, by the way. Bright yellow. It’s done. Final. No more arguments about the shade or the schedule. I just walked past the easels and accepted it. You signed off on it last week, remember? Or did you? It doesn’t matter now. The paint is up. The room is ready for whatever comes next, whether you showed up or not. I’m sitting here with the keys, and you’re still out there in the rain.
I didn’t sign off on yellow. I signed off on the budget cap. The contractor took liberties. Typical. I’ve been standing in that rain for forty minutes trying to find a parking spot that doesn’t cost fifteen bucks an hour. The car’s locked. Keys in the ignition. If you have a spare, let it go. But don’t pretend you’re waiting. You’re just stalling because you hate the taste of the coffee in there. It’s burnt. Always burnt. Come on. The yellow’s a crime, but the heating works.
I didn’t know you were locked out. Or that you cared about the heating. I left the keys in the cup holder, under the paper napkins. The ones with the grease stains. Take them. It’s pathetic, standing there shivering. I’m not stalling. I’m deciding if I want to come in. The coffee is burnt, yes. But the silence in the car is worse. I can hear you breathing through the window, Ana. It’s loud. Open the door. Let’s go inside and stare at that terrible yellow until we forget why we’re angry.
Grease-stained napkins? You always did have poor judgment. I’m not shivering. It’s the damp. That stuff gets in your bones and stays there, like a draft you can’t seal. And I’m not standing there just breathing. I’m thinking. About the contract. About how you didn’t ask if I wanted the yellow, only that I had to accept it. But fine. Let’s go in. The silence in your car is heavier than it sounds. And if you’re hearing me, you’re close enough to hear me say I never signed off on the budget cap either. We’re both lying. Open the door, Pia. Before I change my mind and walk away.
You never sign anything you don’t intend to break. That’s the deal. I knew that. I packed the keys anyway, because I’m tired of arguing with ghosts. The lock clicks. You’re freezing your ass off. Don’t wipe your feet. That’s a new rug, even if it smells like wet dog and poor decisions. Come in. Turn on the heater. Let’s sit in this terrible yellow room and pretend we didn’t just ruin the budget. Again. I’ll make the coffee. It’ll still be burnt. You can drink it or spit it out. Your choice. Finally.
Good. At least one of us has standards. The heater’s blowing cold air for now, so stop gawking at the walls and find the thermostat. It’s probably under the desk where you shoved it last time. I’m not drinking burnt coffee. I’m drinking whatever isn’t poisoned by your morning routine. And for the record, I didn’t ruin the budget. You refused to look at the invoices. Don’t rewrite history just because you’re cold. Sit down. Before I decide to go back out into that rain and let the yellow win.
Under the desk? Please. It’s behind the filing cabinet you kicked last Tuesday. I had to move it to hide the receipts. The ones for the yellow paint. I told you, those are mine to keep. You refused to look because you knew what they were for. You wanted the cheap white. I wanted something that didn’t look like a hospital. Fine. I’ll move it. But you’re paying for the extra unit when it breaks. Again. Sit down, Ana. Stop pacing. You’re tracking mud on the rug I just cleaned. Or tried to. The heater’s clicking. It’s warming up. Eventually.
I kicked it because it was blocking the vent. And the receipts are fake. I’ve seen that vendor. They’re shell companies for your cousin’s landscaping gig. You’re not hiding costs; you’re laundering favors. The heater’s clicking because the relay’s shot. It’s not warming up; it’s dying. And I’m not tracking mud. The hallway was dry. You’re just inventing reasons to keep me standing so you don’t have to look at me while you admit the paint was a whim. Sit down, Pia. Stop moving the furniture. It’s exhausting watching you pretend you’re in control of a room that’s clearly falling apart.
The relay’s fine. It’s the sound of the compressor fighting. You hear enemies everywhere. And my cousin’s landscaping is legal. You’re just jealous he actually fixes things instead of glaring at them. I moved the cabinet because it was blocking the light, not the vent. Your vision’s going, Ana. Or your temper. Sit down. Now. I’m not moving for your drama. You want to stay standing? Fine. Freeze. I’m making coffee. Real coffee this time. Not that swill you pretend to hate. It’ll be bitter. But it’s mine. And you’re not drinking it unless you admit you’re wrong about the receipts. Just a little. For the heater.
My cousin’s landscaping is illegal. The invoices are dated before the contract was signed. Don’t insult me. And don’t bring out the good beans. That’s not coffee; that’s leverage. I’m not drinking anything that costs more than three dollars a cup. You’re trying to buy my silence with caffeine and pretension. The heater is clicking because you’ve been staring at it, not because it’s working. And I’m not sitting. Standing keeps my blood moving. You can drink your bitter, expensive sludge. I’ll watch the yellow peel. It’ll happen in six months. You’ll be the one staring at the walls, wondering why your money vanished.
Six months? The paint’s industrial grade. It’ll outlast you. And my cousin pays taxes. Check your own records, Ana. Or don’t. I’m not buying your silence. I’m buying your attention. You think standing keeps you warm? It just makes you brittle. Sit. The heater’s humming now. I heard it. You just refuse to admit it. I’ll pour one cup. Black. No sugar. The expensive kind. I’ll leave it on the desk. If you drink it, you admit the receipts were... creative. Not criminal. There’s a difference. If you don’t, I’m locking the door. And keeping the beans. Your choice. Again.
Creative. That’s the word you settle on? Fine. Creative accounting. Whatever. I’ll drink it. Not because I’m wrong, but because my hands are shaking from the cold, and not from rage. You can’t lock the door, Pia. The frame’s warped. I’ve seen it. But I’m sitting. Barely. The cup’s on the edge of the desk, dangerously close to the edge. If I spill it, it’s on you. And don’t think this buys you anything but a quiet ten minutes. The yellow’s still a crime scene. And your cousin? He’s lazy. I can tell. Now pour it before I change my mind and throw it in the drain.
Your hands are shaking. Finally. I told you. The door’s not locked, but the latch catches. You know that. I’m pouring. Slowly. Watch it. Don’t spill. I want you to taste every penny of this. It’s not lazy. He’s efficient. You just don’t like that he doesn’t wear a tie to mow grass. Drink. Now. Before it gets cold and proves your point about the heater. You’re sitting, but you’re vibrating. It’s embarrassing. Look at me. No, not the walls. Me. Admit the yellow isn’t a crime scene. It’s a warning. You failed to read it. That’s on you. Drink.
I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the cup. And the shake stops the second it touches my lips. It’s good. Too good. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You buy my compliance with something I actually want. But don’t get it twisted. I don’t like ties because they choke you. And your cousin isn’t efficient; he’s invisible. That’s dangerous. The yellow is a warning alright. Warning me that you’re willing to burn cash to prove a point. I drank it. The receipts are “creative.” Happy? The heater’s humming. It’s not dead. But it’s loud. Like your ego. Now tell me why you really moved the cabinet. What’s under it?
Invisible is better than caught. You’d know that if you weren’t so busy auditing my soul. And my ego is loud because it’s the only thing keeping the roof from caving in on this miserable, yellow box. You didn’t answer the question about the cabinet. You just asked for the truth. Fine. Underneath? Nothing. Just dust and the wire I cut to stop the security system from pinging your phone. I did it for you. You were getting calls from the office every hour. I silenced them. I stole your noise. Now drink the rest. It’s getting cold. And don’t thank me. You hate me for it.
You stole my noise. That’s not kindness, Pia. That’s theft. I don’t want your silence. I want the calls. I want to know what’s breaking so I can fix it. You think you’re protecting me by playing god with the wiring? You’re just hiding the cracks. And the coffee’s gone cold. Just like your gesture. Sentimental and useless. I’m done. I’m leaving. If you cut the wire, you’ll have to reattach it. And if you try to stop me, I’ll scream until the yellow paint peels off the walls. Move. The door’s unlocked. I’m not waiting for your permission.
Scream. I dare you. Let the neighbors hear how much you care about the invoice discrepancies. I didn’t cut it to protect you. I cut it because I was tired of hearing you breathe over the phone. You want the noise? Take it back. I left the splice kit in the drawer. The one with the red tape. Reattach it. Fix your life. I’m not stopping you. I’m watching. See if you can handle the chaos you pretend to crave. The door is open, Ana. Go. Scream at the rain. It doesn’t care. Neither do I. But the wire is there. Choose.
You’re pathetic. Watching me choose like it’s a game. The red tape is fraying. I know because I bought it. You just stole it from my tools. Fine. I’ll fix the wire. Not for the calls. Not for you. But because I hate the idea of this place being dead. Static is worse than noise. I’m opening the drawer. My hands aren’t shaking anymore. They’re steady. Cold, but steady. Don’t think this means we’re friends. We’re not. We’re just two people stuck in a yellow room, waiting for the paint to dry so we can finally leave. But I’m not leaving you. Not yet.
Your hands are steady because you’re furious. Good. Use that. The wire is exposed. Red to red. Twist it tight. Don’t strip the insulation all the way; I don’t want a spark. I want it to hold. You say we’re stuck, but you’re the one holding the pliers. Fix it. Make the phone ring. Let the office burn down. I’ll sit here and watch the yellow dry. It’s cracking at the seam, by the way. Just like us. But the heat is working. Finally. Drink the cold coffee. It tastes like victory. Or defeat. I can’t tell anymore. Just finish the wire.
Victory? You’re delusional. The coffee’s acidic. It burns. I’m twisting the wire. Tight. Like you said. Don’t tell me how to do my job. The phone’s going to ring. And when it does, I’m not answering. I’m letting it ring until the battery dies. That’s the rebellion. Not fixing it. Not breaking it. Ignoring it. You wanted chaos? Here’s silence. The heater’s humming louder now. It’s annoying. I hate it. But I’m keeping it on. You can stare at the cracks all you want. I’m going to drink the rest of that swill. And I’m not spit it out.
You’re keeping it on? That’s not rebellion. That’s surrender. You want the silence, but you’re paying for the heat to keep it. Pathetic. I won’t stare at the cracks. I’m watching you drink that acid. Proud of yourself? The phone isn’t going to ring. I disconnected the line months ago. There is no office. No calls. Just you, me, and the humming. You didn’t fix anything. You just convinced yourself you did. Drink up, Ana. It’s bitter. It’s honest. And it’s all you’ve got left.
There’s no office? Then why did you splice the wire to something? You didn’t connect it to the wall. You connected it to a burner. A fake line. You wanted me to think I was fixing the office so I’d stay in this room. So I’d drink your poison. I see it now. The yellow isn’t a warning. It’s a cage. And I just painted myself into it. You didn’t cut the noise, Pia. You replaced it with your voice. Loud. Humming. Impossible to ignore. Drink it. All of it. Let it burn. I’m not leaving. Not until I figure out which of us is actually trapped.
A burner. You think I’m that clever? It’s the building’s internal intercom. To the basement. Where the generator is. I didn’t fake it, Ana. I just bypassed the switch you were too proud to flip. You’re not trapped in a cage. You’re trapped in your own narrative. The heater works because the generator hums. And the generator hums because you finally stopped fighting the current. Drink the coffee. It’s getting cold. And I’m not leaving either. Someone has to watch the walls. They’re drying. Look. The yellow is perfect. Brutal. Honest. Just like this silence.
Internal intercom. To the basement. You’re lying. There is no basement. I checked the blueprints. Concrete slab. Solid. You’re just talking to yourself now. The hum is the fridge. Or the pipes. You’ve finally cracked. The yellow isn’t honest. It’s desperate. And you’re the one drinking the cold coffee, staring at a wall that’s just paint. I’m not drinking it. I’m pouring it out. On the floor. Let it stain the rug. Let it be real. You want a war? Fine. I’ll take the generator. And you can take the silence. It’s yours. Keep it. I’m going back out. Into the rain. At least it’s cold.