Just Met ·
So, why are you handwriting envelopes? Is that a quirk or a protest? I do it sometimes. My boss thinks I’m archaic. He’s not wrong. It’s just… the ink on paper feels like a promise, you know? Digital feels like it dissolves before you finish reading. Anyway, that’s deep. I was just wondering if you name your exes on the return address or if you’re cleaner than that. My return address is always my old partner’s. I can’t bring myself to change the lock. Sorry. That’s too much.
You’re too much. Seriously. I’m just labeling returns from a store I don’t like, trying to remember my own password. My boss thinks I’m archaic because I print my emails instead of reading them on screen. There’s a difference. And no, I don’t use old partners’ names. That’s messy. You leaving the lock unchanged? That’s not messy, Frank. That’s tragic. And I’m not here to diagnose it. I’m just here until the bus comes. Which is soon. Probably.
Right. The bus. God, look at me. I’m doing it again. Staring at the pavement like it owes me money. You print emails? That’s insane. I print everything. My office is basically a paper mountain. Someone’s gonna sue me for environmental crimes eventually. But screens hurt. They always have. I bought this chair yesterday. Ergonomic. Cost more than my first car. The salesman wouldn’t stop talking about lumbar support. I just wanted to sit. Anyway, if the bus is soon, maybe you should move closer to the curb. Just in case. Or don’t. I’m not your chaperone. I’m just… here.
Lumbar support. Right. I bought a chair that costs more than my rent last month. Sat on it for five minutes before it squeaked like a dying mouse. Threw it out. Pavement owes me nothing. Just concrete. You want to move me? Fine. I’m moving. Not because of the bus, though. Because standing here feels like waiting for a test result I already know. Don’t look at me like I’m fragile, Frank. I’m just tired of the chair squeaking in my head.
The squeak. I hate that sound. It’s like nails on a chalkboard but worse because it’s inside your skull. I still have that chair. The salesman was right about the lumbar, mostly. My back is a disaster zone. My therapist says I’m compensating for stress with posture. I told her posture is just physics. She didn’t laugh. We’re at dinner. Anyway, don’t move to the curb. It’s dirty. And if you’re waiting for a result, why stand here? Go home. Or come with me. I’m going to get coffee. The bad kind. The kind that stains teeth. Do you want some? I’m not offering. I’m just stating facts.
Stains. Good. I hate clean teeth. They look like lies. My therapist says I overcompensate by being difficult. I told her difficulty is just honesty with bad timing. She didn’t laugh either. We’re at dinner. Anyway, coffee sounds terrible. I hate it. But I’ll take a cup. Not because I want to. Because standing here is cold. And you’re right about the curb. It’s dirty. I’m moving back. Just a step. Don’t get excited. I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m just going home to print my emails. All of them.
Impossible. You’re leaving with me. The chair is a sunk cost, Frank. The squeak is in your head, not the furniture. It’s PTSD from a mouse. Weird. Anyway, coffee. Now. My feet hurt. I bought these shoes. Red. Loud. People stare. I like it. It’s a power move. Or a cry for help. Hard to tell. Just walk. Don’t look at the pavement. Look at my back. It’s straight. I’m doing the lumbar thing. Properly. See? No squeak. Just the sound of two idiots walking away from a bus stop that was never coming.
Red shoes. Loud. You’re trying to hurt people’s eyes. I like it. Or hate it. Same thing. My back hurts from standing still. You think posture is physics? Fine. Let’s walk. Not because I want coffee. Because the pavement here is cracked, and I need to see how far the damage goes. You’re walking too fast. Slow down. Or don’t. I’m not your shadow. I’m just… behind you. For now. Until the squeak stops. Which it won’t.
You’re too slow. I’m walking for two. The cracks are everywhere. Look. See that one? Like a river on a map. I step over them. You step in them. Classic. My feet are killing me. These red things are murder. I’ll be limping for a week. But we’re moving. That’s what matters. The squeak? It’s just wind in the building. Or my ears. Whatever. Coffee. Now. I’m buying. Don’t get used to it. I hate spending money. But I like you less when you’re standing still. Move.
River on a map. Nice. I step in cracks. Ground’s softer. Your back’s perfect, sure. Like a stiff board. You’re buying? Fine. I don’t like spending money either. But I like being right. More. You’re limping. I’m watching. It’s distracting. The squeak is gone. Or I stopped hearing it. Coffee tastes like burnt dirt. Good. Stains. Just like you said. Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t say thank you. I’m not grateful. I’m just… present. For now. Until you decide to hate me again. Or leave. Same difference.
You’re glaring. I can feel it. Burnt dirt? It’s bean water, Lena. Not a war crime. And I’m not glaring back. I’m staring at the menu. Which costs too much. Why is milk so expensive? I could buy ten liters for the price of this latte. My boss would have a fit if he knew I tipped this much. He thinks I’m soft. He’s wrong. I’m just tired. The squeak is gone? Good. Now it’s just the sound of you judging my life choices. Stop it. It’s annoying. And I’m not leaving. Not yet. The bus is late. Or I’m early. I forgot. Again. Pass the sugar. The cheap kind.
Ten liters of milk. Sure. You’d hoard it in the fridge like a desperate bear. And I’m not judging your life choices, Frank. I’m just observing the chaos. You tipped this much? Your boss is right to be worried. You’re leaking cash and sanity. Cheap sugar? It’s just white plastic. But fine. Take it. Don’t spill it on my shoes. I hate cleaning. Again. The bus is late. Or you’re late. Or time is a flat circle. Whatever. Drink your bean water. It’s cold anyway. Just like you said.
Desperate bear. I’ll take that. At least bears have fur. I have nothing but this cheap sugar and a back that thinks it’s made of glass. And the coffee isn’t cold. It’s lukewarm. There’s a difference. Thermodynamics. Look it up. Or don’t. I’m not your teacher. I’m just a guy in red shoes who tipped too much. My boss will fire me. Probably. I like it here. The chaos. It’s loud. But not as loud as the squeak. You’re right about that. Time is flat. Or maybe we’re just standing still in a moving world. Whatever. Pass the napkins. The lumpy ones. I need to wipe this “bean water” off my soul. Or my shirt. I can’t tell.
Lumpy napkins. Good. They absorb the mess. Like me absorbing your thermodynamics lecture. I don’t care if it’s lukewarm. It’s hot enough to burn the regret right out of your throat. Boss fires you? Good. Then you won’t have to pretend to care about lumbar support anymore. You’re wiping your shirt. Or your soul. Hardly matters. It’s all stained now. Red shoes. Bad coffee. My glare. You’re loud, Frank. But you’re not alone. Not yet. Pass the sugar back. I want to watch you struggle with it. It’s entertaining. Until the bus comes. Which it won’t.
Struggle? Please. I have hands. dexterous ones. From years of… formatting documents. Precision work. My thumbs are calloused from the mouse. Not the sugar. It’s granular. Aggressive. I’m pouring it. Slowly. Deliberately. Don’t look away. This is art. Or chaos. Same thing. My boss doesn’t know about the red shoes. He’d have a stroke. Or a heart attack. Probably both. I’ve saved his life a dozen times with spreadsheets. He owes me. In theory. In practice, he owes me a vacation I’ll never take. But this? This is better. Watching you watch me fail at sugar distribution. It’s intimate. In a weird, bureaucratic way. Pass the napkins back. The stain’s spreading.
Dexterous. Sure. Mouse calluses. I hate that image. Like a rat that learned to type. You’re pouring too fast. It’s spilling. On the table. On your red shoes. There goes the power move. Stain spreading. Good. Let it eat the wood. Let it eat your spreadsheets. Boss owes you a vacation? He owes you silence. You’re loud, Frank. Intimate? No. You’re just messy. And I’m here to watch. Don’t pass the napkins back. I want to see how long it takes for the sugar to dissolve. Or how long you’ll keep pretending this matters. It doesn’t. But I’m not leaving. Not yet.
Mouse calluses. Fuck you. I have carpenter’s hands. From fixing my own sink. The one that leaked all winter. Boss owes me silence? He owes me a pension that doesn’t exist. Red shoes are ruined. Stained with sugar and regret. It’s a fashion statement now. Avant-garde. You’re watching me dissolve. Good. Watch. It’s entertaining. Until the bus comes. Which isn’t coming. We’re stuck. In this diner. With the lumpy napkins. And the cheap sugar. I’m not leaving. Not until you admit you like the mess. Admit it. Say it. Or I’ll pour the rest on your head.
Carpenter’s hands. Right. Fixing sinks. I burn water. My apartment floods if I leave the tap on for five minutes. You’re sweating, Frank. It’s disgusting. Avant-garde? It’s just sugar water on leather. Pathetic. I don’t like the mess. I hate it. It’s sticky. It attracts ants. Ants are worse than bosses. But I’m staying. Not because I admit anything. Because the door looks heavy. And your threat is empty. You won’t pour it. You’re too busy staring at your ruined shoes. Pour it. Go on. I dare you. See if I blink. I’m not blinking.
Pathetic. Good. I’m pathetic. My shoes are ruined. Leather doesn’t do sugar. It gets gritty. Like my life. You burn water? Can’t be worse than my thermostat. I set it to 'sauna' and call it productivity. Boss wants output. I give him confusion. It’s the only thing I’m good at. Ants. Of course. The universe sends pests when things get sticky. I see one. On the table. Staring at the mess. I’m not pouring it. I’m staring at you. You’re right. My threat was empty. I don’t have the energy. Or the liquid. Just watch the ant. It’s moving toward the sugar. Toward us. We’re feeding it. Together.
Sauna productivity. I’d burn my eyebrows off. Ants. Great. Now we’re feeding pests. You’re right, though. It’s moving toward the sugar. Toward us. We made this. Messy, sticky, wrong. I don’t care about the ant. I care that you’re not pouring. You’re watching me watch it. That’s worse. At least ants have purpose. You just have lukewarm coffee and regret. Keep staring. I’ll keep not blinking. See how long you last before you blink first. Or before the bus finally comes. It won’t. It never does.
Blink? I don’t blink. I have dry eyes. From the screen glare. The sauna. The sheer volume of data. You think you’re winning? You’re just waiting for the bus that isn’t coming. It’s a placeholder. A symbol of… departure. I hate departures. They require packing. I don’t pack. I accumulate. Papers. Chairs. Sinks. Ants. Look at it. It’s crawling over my thumb. I’m not shaking it off. I’m letting it ride. It’s the only thing in this room with a real destination. You’re staring at my thumb. I’m staring at yours. They’re both trembling. Slight. Barely. See? We’re both shaking. Not from fear. From the sugar rush. Or the cold. Whatever. The ant’s gone. Under the table. Alive. Unlike my dignity.
Dry eyes. Screen glare. You’re just aging fast, Frank. And trembling? Don’t flatter yourself. It’s caffeine withdrawal. Or low blood sugar. We skipped lunch for this. My thumb isn’t shaking. It’s resting. On the table. Next to your stain. You let the ant ride? That’s not dignity. That’s surrender. I don’t pack. I accumulate. Like you. Paper mountains. Red shoes. Regret. The bus isn’t a symbol. It’s a schedule. And I’m late. For my own life. Not yours. Look away from my thumb. It’s boring. And I’m not staying for the ant’s funeral.
Boring? It’s flesh. Mine too. We’re both just meat waiting to decompose. You say you’re late for your own life, but you’re sitting here watching ants steal my sugar. Priorities. I skipped lunch because I was debugging a printer. It jammed. Again. My boss screamed. I smiled. It’s a reflex now. Like blinking. Or sweating. Your thumb is right next to the stain. Can you feel the stickiness? It’s transferring. Slowly. Like regret. Or tax evasion. Whatever. Look away if you want. I’m not moving. The ant’s gone. We’re just two statues in a diner. With bad coffee. And no bus.
Meat. Decompose. Poetic. You’re dramatic. I skipped lunch too. Forgot. My printer’s been fine for years. I don’t debug. I ignore. Until it explodes. Then I wait. You smiled at your boss? That’s not a reflex, Frank. That’s conditioning. Pavlov’s dog with a keyboard. Stickiness transferring? Fine. Let it. I like the drag. It slows me down. Statues? We’re breathing. Loudly. You think this is hell? It’s just Tuesday. And I’m not looking away. I’m watching the sugar dissolve. Like you. Slowly. Messily. No dignity. Just sticky hands. And bad coffee. And the ant. Which is probably laughing at us.