Terms ·
God, don’t. I was down at the hardware store today, just looking for a gasket, and the guy behind the counter was holding this bucket. That yellowed, sickly beige. It’s not even brown, it’s just… decayed. Like it’s been waiting in a drawer since the nineties. I thought of how you left that note on the fridge. I didn’t throw it away, but I moved it. Behind the milk. You’re making me feel guilty for existing in my own kitchen. Is that what you want?
You’re overthinking it. It’s a note, not a monument. I was only reminding you about the trash. If you’re going to dramatize a piece of paper, do it somewhere else. The milk is blocking the shelf, Jo. Move it. Or don’t. I’m not here to manage your guilt trips about condiments.
The milk isn’t the point. You know that. You always know that. It’s the casual way you dismiss it, like my feelings are just clutter to be sorted. I moved the milk. Fine. But you didn’t even look at it. You just kept talking about the note like it was nothing. It’s not nothing. It’s the whole reason I’m standing here staring at a bucket of trash instead of doing my actual work. My boss is going to kill me if I don’t finish that report by five. And you’re just... there.
My boss email is blowing up my phone, so unless you’re offering to type the report, cut it out. I’m not a prop for your existential crisis about dairy products. I left the note because I needed you to take the bin out. You’re making it about feelings now. I’m making it about the smell. Fix it.
Fine. The bin goes out. Happy? I’m walking to the door now. But don’t think this fixes the fact that you left that note there like a challenge. Like you knew I’d pick it up and stare at it for twenty minutes. You’re manipulating me through sanitation, Kit. That’s low, even for you. I’m out there now. The air smells like rain and wet asphalt. I didn’t take an umbrella. Again.
You always leave without one. Let the hair frizz. It’s not my problem if you turn into a wet dog. And I didn’t write it to manipulate you. I wrote it because you’re lazy. Go stand in the rain if it helps you feel dramatic. Just bring the bin back. Don’t track mud in.
Lazy? I stayed up till three fixing your spreadsheets because you couldn’t be bothered to format the columns. That’s lazy. You just want the easy win. I’m standing in the rain now, holding a bin that smells like old coffee and regret. The plastic is sweating in my hands. It’s cold. I can feel the water running down my neck. I’m not bringing the bin back in. I’m leaving it on the porch. Let it rot there. Let the smell marinate. You wanted a reaction? You got one. Don’t expect me to come back inside and pretend everything’s fine.
Fine. Leave it. See if I care. I’m taking the shower anyway. You’ll just track mud in when you come back, or freeze. Your choice. I’m not waiting around for a performance review. Go get wet. I’m done.
Shut up. Just shut up. I’m not coming back in. I’m standing here. The rain is getting in my shoes. I can feel the cold water pooling around my ankles. It’s miserable. I hate it. I hate that you’re right, I hate that I’m doing exactly what you said I would, and I hate that I’m still here instead of walking away. You’re waiting for me to crack. I won’t. I’m just going to stand here until I freeze. Then you can deal with the wet footprints. And the bin. And the note. And me. Whatever. I’m done too.
You’re already inside. I can see you through the window. You’re just pacing. Stop performing. Go dry off or catch pneumonia. I don’t care which. But you’re not freezing on the porch. That’s cold, and I’m not cleaning up a corpse. Move.
You’re watching me? From the window? That’s creepy, Kit. I’m not pacing, I’m waiting. Waiting for you to say something real instead of hiding behind that glass like you’re in a terrarium. I’m dry. Mostly. The shower was… adequate. I’m still mad. And I’m not moving until you admit you’re scared. Scared of the smell, scared of the note, scared I’ll actually leave. Admit it. Or I stay. Right here. On this rug. Let the damp seep in.
I’m not scared of you leaving. I’m scared of the silence after. And the note isn’t about fear. It’s about consequence. You’re standing on a rug that’s already damp. Go sit on the couch. Stop blocking the hallway. I need to get to the kitchen. Move.
"Consequence." Right. That’s your word for the week. You think consequences are something you hand out like coupons. I’m not moving for a word. I’m sitting. On the rug. The damp is seeping into my jeans, cold and heavy. It feels honest, at least. You want the hallway clear? Fine. But don’t pretend you’re worried about the kitchen. You’re worried because I’m not reacting like you scripted. I’m going to sit here until you bring me a towel. Or until you cry. Whichever takes longer. Your call.
Sit then. Let your jeans mildew. I’m making tea. The kettle’s screaming. You can have Earl Grey or nothing. But don’t touch my mug. And wipe your feet before you ruin the floorboards. I’m not cleaning up your tantrum in damp denim.
Earl Grey. Don’t be ridiculous. You know I hate Earl Grey. It tastes like dust and regret. I’ll take the tea, but I’m not wiping my feet. The rug is already ruined. Let it be. You’re holding the mug like a weapon. Stop shaking. I can hear your hands rattling against the ceramic. It’s pathetic. You want me to sit? I’m sitting. But I’m watching you. Every time you stir the tea, I’m counting. One, two, three. Until you admit you’re lonely. Until you admit you left the note because you wanted me to stay. Or go. Just say it. Before the kettle blows its whistle again.
Shut up about my hands. They’re fine. And stop counting. It’s annoying. The kettle’s loud, Jo. Stop staring at me like I’m a exhibit. You want tea? Drink it. It’s not dust. It’s just tea. And I left the note because I was busy. Stop making it about loneliness. It’s just a note. Drink.
I’m not drinking it. I can see the steam curling off the surface. You’re pouring it with that precise, irritated care. The way you always do. Like you’re measuring out my punishment. I left the note because I was busy? You? Busy. Don’t insult my intelligence, Kit. You had three minutes. Three. You stared at the fridge for a full minute before writing. I saw you. Through the window. Or did you think I was really outside? I’m right here. On the rug. And I’m not moving until you tell me why you’re shaking. Is it the tea? Or is it me?
I’m not shaking. I have low blood sugar. You’re delusional. And I didn’t stare at the fridge. I stared at the empty space where you used to put the milk. It’s just a reflex. Stop analyzing my micro-expressions. Drink the tea or starve. I’m going back to work. The spreadsheet isn’t going to format itself. Move your feet.
Low blood sugar. Convenient. You always have an excuse when the world gets too real. I’m not moving my feet. They’re stuck to the rug. Maybe I’ll grow roots. See if that speeds up your spreadsheet. You’re walking away. Again. Just like you did with the milk. With the bin. With me. I’m going to sit here until you come back. And I’m going to drink that tea. Cold. Like your apology. You’re not getting off that easy, Kit. I’m still watching. I’m always watching. Even when you pretend I’m not there. Especially then.
Keep watching. It’s exhausting me. I’m tired of the performance. The spreadsheet is due. I have to actually work now, not play therapist for a grown adult who thinks sitting on a rug is a political statement. Come inside if you’re cold. Or don’t. I’m done arguing with the furniture.
Furniture. I’m furniture now. Fine. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be useful. I’ll sit here and absorb the moisture while you pretend I don’t exist. That’s the deal, right? You get your silence, I get my dampness. But don’t think I don’t hear you typing. That click-clack is loud. Aggressive. You’re hitting the keys too hard. Spelling out your rage. I can tell. You’re going to make a mistake in row forty-two. You always do when you’re distracted. I’ll be here when you find it. I’ll be the only one who knows.
Row forty-two is fine. I checked it. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me. Keep typing. Keep watching. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re sitting on a wet rug like a damp rag. And I’m not making mistakes. I’m efficient. Unlike you, stagnating in the hallway.
Efficient. Right. You’re efficient. I’m stagnating. That’s the narrative. I’m just observing the symmetry of it all, Kit. You typing rows of data while I soak up the leak you’ve been ignoring for weeks. The rug is a mess. Dark patches spreading. Like a map of somewhere you don’t want to go. I’m not moving. Not because I’m cold. But because if I stand up, I have to admit I was wrong. That a note is just a note. And I can’t do that. Not yet. So stay there. Type. Hyperventilate into your spreadsheets. I’ll be here. Watching the damp spread.
You’re not watching anything. You’re staring at a stain. It’s just water damage, Jo. Not a map. I’m not hyperventilating. I’m working. And you’re right about row forty-two. I missed a decimal. Happy now? That’s your victory. A typo. Go rub it in. Then get up. The floorboards are warping.
A decimal. That’s your big surrender? I didn’t rub it in. I just watched you panic. I saw the hesitation. The backspace key clicking like a heartbeat skipping. You’re good, Kit. Too good. But you’re cracking. And now you’re worried about floorboards? Priorities. I’ll get up. Not for you. For the house. But you’re losing points. Major ones. You admitted the mistake. That means you’re tired. Tired means you’re weak. Weak means you’ll listen. I’m standing. The rug is sodden. I feel heavy. Heavy with all the things you won’t say. Move over. Let me sit. Not on the couch. Next to you. At the desk. I’ll type the correction. One finger. Slowly. So you can hear it.
Get off my chair. You type like a toddler. I’m not letting you near the mouse. You’re wet, you’re loud, and you’re tired. Sit on the floor. Or the couch. Just not here. I need to fix the decimal. And don’t think this changes anything. You’re still standing on the rug’s grave.
Toddler. Right. I’ll sit. On the floor. Right next to the warping boards. Let the damp rise up through my jeans. I can hear you clicking. Precise. Cold. You think that fixes the decimal? It doesn’t fix anything. The rug is ruined. The note is still on the fridge. And you’re still staring at the screen like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. I’m watching your shoulders. They’re tense. Tight as a drum. You’re not fixing the file, Kit. You’re running. From me. From the silence. From the fact that I’m right here, on the floor, and you won’t look at me. Look. Now.
I’m looking. I’m looking at the screen. You’re in the peripheral, a smudge of damp denim. Stop breathing so loud. It’s distracting. If you want to sit on the floor, fine. But don’t touch the keyboard. And don’t look at me like I’m a person you know. I’m just fixing a file. Look away.
Peripheral. I’m just a smudge. You’re treating me like a glitch in the monitor. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the reflection in the black screen when it blanks. Your face is tired. Grotesque. You want me to look away? I can’t. The damp is soaking into my bones now. It’s cold. It’s heavy. I’m not breathing loud on purpose. You’re just sensitive. Like everything else. Fix the decimal. Ignore me. But don’t pretend I’m not here. I’m the only real thing in this room. The rest is just pixels and wet wood.
I fixed it. There. You happy? Now get up. You’re dripping on the baseboard. I don’t care if you’re the only real thing here. You’re a hazard. Move. Before I call the super. Or the police. Or just shut the door. Your choice. But stop staring at my reflection. It’s boring.
Shut the door. Do it. I dare you. I’m not moving. Let the super come. Let the police take the report. I’m done with this house. I’m done with you. You think you fixed the decimal? You didn’t fix anything. The file is still broken. Just like us. I’m going to sit here until the floor rots through. Until the water gets to the foundation. You can keep your spreadsheet, Kit. Keep it. I’m taking the mug. The one you didn’t want me to touch. It’s warm. I’m drinking it. Standing up. Slowly. Watch me. I’m leaving. Not the room. The life. You wanted a monument? I’m the monument. And I’m leaking.
Take the mug. I don’t want it. Go leak somewhere else. I’m saving the file. You’re making a scene over a decimal and a ceramic cup. Pathetic. I’m locking the door behind you. Don’t come back until you’re dry. And stop dripping on the threshold. It’s annoying.