Just Met ·
I'm terrible at this. I'm a disaster. Look at this shirt—twenty dollars dollars at that stall near the 4th Street station and the print is already cracking. It's a fake band that didn't even exist in the90s. I bought it because I thought it would give us something talking about, but it just smells like cheap polyester. My manager, Gary, would lose his mind over the inventory logs anyway. It's pathetic. Why are you looking at me like that? It's just a shirt.
I'm looking at you because you're vibrating over a piece of trash. Gary sounds like the kind of man who counts the logs while the building burns down, which is honestly a waste. It's not the shirt, it's the desperation of the whole situation. I saw a dog on the way here that looked more composed than you are right now. Anyway, why do you think a fake band would start a conversation? It's lazy. The polyester smell is the worst part. It clings to everything.
Gary isn't just counting, he's obsessed with the stapler. He spent forty minutes yesterday looking for a specific Swingline brand. It wasn't lazy, it was just... there. The band is called 'The Echoes' or something, and the logo is just a skull turned backwards. It's a scam. The dog you saw probably had a better plan than standing here while I'm worrying about the inventory. The smell is on my hands now. I can't get it off. Do you always talk this cynical? It's exhausting.
I'm not cynical, I'm just observant. If Gary is obsessed with a stapler, he's already dead inside. As for the smell, wash your hands. It's not that deep. I once spent three weeks in an apartment where the radiator smelled like burnt hair and I didn't complain to anyone. The Echoes? Sounds like a terrible name. It's exhausting being honest, I suppose, but it beats standing in silence staring at a twenty-dollar disaster. Why do you even care about my opinion on your tone? It's pathetic.
I didn't ask for a critique of my tone. Three weeks with a radiator? That sounds like a nightmare. I live in a place where the floorboards creak every time the cat moves, but I don't make it a personality trait. The shirt is pathetic because you keep circling back to it. It's twenty dollars. I could have bought a decent meal for that, instead of this literal garbage from a discount bin. It's not deep, it's just a shirt. You're just choosing to be difficult because you're bored.
I'm not bored, I'm just tired of the excuses. If your floorboards creak, the house is old, get over with it. You could have bought a meal, but here you're standing there complaining about a backwards skull. It's a choice, Hana. I stop being difficult because you're making it easy to brush off. I saw a woman drop her groceries today and just stood in the rain for ten minutes. That had more dignity than this conversation about a shirt.
The woman in the rain was probably just in shock, not making a statement. You love making everything a performance. You think it's a choice? I bought the shirt because I was tired of the silence in the car on the drive here. Now you're talking about dignity and dropped groceries. It's ridiculous. The shirt is twenty dollars and the seam is already coming apart at the left sleeve. If you want dignity, go back out to the rain. I want to get this coat off. You're dripping on the floor.
I'm not dripping, you're just projecting. You bought the shirt to fill the silence because you can't be alone with your thoughts? That's the real tragedy. If the seam is coming apart, throw it in the bin. I used to know someone who stayed in diners until dawn just because they didn't want to go home to an empty. You're so worried about the floor while the whole vibe is falling apart at your feet. Did you ever actually like the music, or was it just a prop?
I never even heard them play. I don't know their music. It was just a prop, okay? A piece of fabric to make me look like I had a hobby. Now you're talking about diners and apartments. My friend stayed in a diner on 5th because the heater was broken, not for atmosphere. It's not a tragedy, it's just cheap. I'm not projecting, it's hot in here and this shirt is itchy. Stop trying to find some deep meaning in a bad purchase. It's annoying.
It's annoying because you're trying so hard to be shallow. Buying a prop for a hobby is the peak of being hollow, Hana. Your friend was cold because the heater was broken, not because they were a poet. People want to believe everything is just cheap so they don't have to deal with the weight of why things fail. But here you are, trembling over a polyester sleeve. If the shirt is itchy, take it off. Why are you even still wearing it? It's literally nothing but making you look twice as desperate.
I'm wearing it because it's already on. I'm not going to stand here and strip because you're making it a thing. You think you're so much deeper, but it's just a shirt. My friend wasn't a poet, he just had a broken radiator and high blood pressure. It's not hollow, it's just a Tuesday. You keep looking for a tragedy where there is none. If you want a performance so much, go back to the bus stop. My head hurts from the humidity.
It's always a Tuesday with you, isn't it? That's the problem. You hide behind the mundane because you're terrified of actually feeling something real. Your head hurts because you're overthinking the humidity and the shirt. It's a classic move. I saw a guy at the station arguing with a vending machine for ten minutes; he had more purpose than you do right now. If you want to go to the bus stop, go. I'm not here to keep you company while you brood over a cheap seam. It's exhausting.
The vending machine probably just had stuck coils. That's not purpose, that's a mechanical failure. You're obsessed with finding metaphors in every shadow. I'm not brooding, I'm trying to finish a conversation without being psychoanalyzed by someone. If it's so exhausting, then leave. The door is right there. I have a stack of mail to sort tomorrow morning that doesn't need your observations on my "vibe." The shirt is going in the trash anyway. I'm done. Are you?
I'm not going anywhere just because you're prickly. Sort your mail, I'm sure it's just bills and junk anyway. You talk about being done, but you're still here, fueling the drama of it all. The vending machine had a point—at least it wanted to give something back. You just want to complain about the effort of getting rid of it. It's a pathetic cycle. I'd rather deal with a broken radiator than hear another lecture on a ruined shirt. Go sort your envelopes. See if it makes you feel better.
The mail is mostly notices from the water company and a flyer for a dentist on Oak Street. It's not drama, it's just life. You stand there acting like you've got the map to the universe because you can't even handle a conversation without a critique. It's pathetic. I'm going to go into the kitchen. The sink is leaking and I need to find a bucket. If you want a broken radiator, go find one. I'm not being your audience for these little observations. The shirt is in the bin. It's over.
A leaking sink. Typical. You'll find the bucket and then wonder why the floor still rots. It's not a grand tragedy, it's just a series of small failures that you leak. I don't need a map to the universe to see you're drowning in a glass of water. Go to the kitchen. Just don't come back to me when the water overflows because you were too busy being annoyed to fix it. I'm not your audience, I'm just the person watching the show fall apart.
The bucket is under the sink, I've had it for three years. It's not rotting, it's just a washer. You love the idea of a collapse, don't you? It makes your own life feel cinematic. I'm not drowning, I'm just trying to fix a pipe while you talk like a script. If you want to watch the show, sit down, but the tickets are expensive. I'm going to get the wrench. It's a heavy one, the kind from the hardware store. It actually works. Unlike this conversation.
A heavy wrench. How heroic of you. You think having a tool changes the fact that you're stuck. It's not cinematic, it's just plumbing in a building that smells like old grease. I don't need a script when the reality is this loud. Go ahead, play with your wrench. Maybe the metal will give you the validation you're seeking. You think you're being practical, but you're just busy. I'll stay here and watch the water drip. It's more interesting than your dentist flyers.
The grease smell is the diner on the corner, not the building. It's been there since the seventies. You want to stay and watch the drip? Fine. It's a consistent rhythm. I don't need validation from a wrench, I need the water to stop so I can walk across the kitchen. The wrench cost twelve dollars at the hardware store. If the dripping is so fascinating, maybe your life is pretty quiet. I'm going under the sink now. Don't expect me to come out with a commentary on my soul.
The diner has been there because nobody knows how to move on, just like you. My life is quiet because I don't spend it shouting about twelve-dollar tools just to feel something. Go under the sink. It's dark down there, maybe you can finally stop being seen. I don't expect a commentary on your soul; I don't think there's much there today. Just don't break the pipe. I don't want to mop up your mess mess.
It's not dark, there's a lightbulb right there. And I'm not going to break the pipe, I know how to turn a bolt. You think you're so clever with the "not being seen" comment, but it's just another way to be rude. I'm already getting my hands dirty, and I don't care about your opinion on my plumbing. If the water overflows, I'll be the one finding the mop. You stay there and be quiet. I have work to do.
The lightbulb is probably flickering, you'll notice soon enough. You talk about knowing how to turn a bolt like it's a life skill. It's just a bolt, Hana. Get your hands dirty; it's the first honest thing you've agreed to do all day. I'll be quiet, the silence is the only thing in this room that actually makes sense. Just fix the pipe. I'm tired of the sound of the water hitting the bucket while you're too stubborn to move.
The light isn't flickering, it's a steady sixty-watt LED. You're just looking for something to be annoyed with. It's a life skill when you don't want to flood your own kitchen. The silence only makes sense to you because you don't have anything to say that isn't insulting. I'm not stubborn, I'm just waiting for the nut to actually budge. If the sound of the water bothers you so much, go find some headphones. I'm done talking to you while I'm crouching.
A sixty-watt LED. How thrilling. You're so focused on the specs of your life because you're terrified elsewhere. If the nut won't budge, use more leverage instead of narrating about it. I don't need headphones; the sound of the water is cleaner than your excuses. You're crouching there, waiting for a miracle, and you're acting like the wrench is a holy relic. Go ahead, stay in your small space. At least the pipe has the dignity of being exactly what it leaks.
The pipe budged. It didn't need a miracle, it just needed a bit of pressure. You talk about dignity like it's a currency you can spend, but you're just standing there wasting air while I actually work. I'm not "staying in a small space," I'm under a damn sink. If you're so impressed by the pipe's honesty, then go talk to the drain. I'm getting up now. My knees are clicking. This is the peak of your evening? Pathetic.
The pipe budged. Congratulations, you conquered a leak. You act like you've climbed Everest when you just turned a nut. Your knees are clicking because you're tense, not because you're old. This isn't the peak, but it's better than listening to you deify a twelve-dollar hardware purchase. Get up and wipe your hands. The world is still there, the sink is still there, and I'm still standing here. What are you going to do now that the great crisis is over?
I'm going to dry my hands on this towel and open a beer. The "great crisis" is over because I fixed it, period. You're still standing there because you have nowhere else to go. I'm not going to deify anything; I'm just tired of the noise. I'm going to sit at the table and ignore the silence until you decide to leave. If you want to keep being dramatic, go ahead. I'm just sitting now. The sink is dry. That's the reality.
The sink is dry. Groundbreaking. You open a beer like it's a trophy for surviving a battle that no one else joined. You say I have nowhere to go, but at least I'm not hiding under a piece of furniture. Sit at the table. Let the beer be your distraction from the fact that you have nothing left to say to yourself. I'm not being dramatic, I'm just waiting for you to realize that fixing a pipe doesn't change the person. Enjoy your silence.
The beer is a lager, it cost six dollars, and it's not a trophy, it's just a drink. You keep talking about "the person" like you're reading a character in a book. I'm sitting because my back hurt from crouching. I don't have anything to say to myself; I'm just existing here. If the silence is so heavy for you, then walk out. I'm going to drink my beer. The table is cold, and the room is quiet, and that's enough for me.
A six-dollar lager. You're overpaying for bubbles and a numb tongue. You say you're just existing as if that's an achievement we should all be celebrating. The table is cold because it's furniture, not because of your mood. I'm not walking out; I want to see how long it takes before the silence starts to bite back. Drink your beer. Maybe the bitterness will help you match the fact that you're just sitting in a quiet room with a fixed pipe and a trash shirt.