Just Met ·
God, this carpet stains if you look at it wrong. Like, actual chemical burns. I’m staring at a brown splatter that looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. I’m bad at this. At talking. At not noticing the grime. I think I’m sweating through my shirt. Do you hear that hum? The AC sounds like a dying wasp.
Yeah. It’s annoying. My office has the same whine, except theirs is worse because the filter hasn’t been changed since... whenever. I tried calling maintenance last week. Guy just listened to me complain for twenty minutes before hanging up. Weird, right? I stood there holding the phone, sweating too. You should loosen that collar. Look less like you’re bracing for impact. It’s just a stain. Probably coffee. Or ink. Who knows.
My collar’s fine. I don’t brace for impact, I just... breathe wrong. That maintenance guy sounds bored. I hate bored people. Boredom is a form of violence. My boss ignores my emails for three days, then asks why I’m not “proactive.” Proactive enough for what? To fix the carpet? I’m not fixing the stain, Hana. I’m sitting in it. You want me to loosen up? Try wearing polyester in July. It’s a swamp suit.
Polyester is a crime. I tried wearing it once to that place on 4th Street. The one with the terrible lighting. I felt like I was marinating in my own salt. But yeah, "proactive" is just corporate speak for "work until you break." My boss does it too. Sits there staring at the wall, pretending to think. We’re all just waiting for the wasp to die. Maybe loosen the collar. Just a bit. Unless you’re trying to start a fire.
I hate that place on 4th. The lighting makes everyone look like they’re dying of jaundice. But you’re right. I am bracing. It’s a habit. My boss stares at that wall too, pretending to read reports he’s already memorized. We’re all just waiting for the wasp to die. It’s efficient, in a sad way. I’ll loosen the collar if you promise not to mention my saltiness again. It’s insulting. And accurate.
Deal. Keep it tight. Let them suffocate. I’ve got my own swamp. Salty and all. You think that stain is permanent? Mine’s been there since Tuesday. Don’t look. It’s just... history. Trapped in the fibers. Like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. Wait. Did you say something about the wasp? It stopped. Now it’s just... quiet. Too quiet. My phone’s buzzing. Probably another email. I’m going to throw it in the trash.
Throw it. Good. Let the buzzing die. That stain isn’t history, it’s just dirt. You’re anthropomorphizing filth. I’ve got a report due that’s equally worthless. My boss wants “synergy.” I want to sleep. The silence is worse. It’s loud. Like holding your breath. I’m staring at that brown shape again. It looks like a lung. A swollen, infected lung. Gross. But accurate. Do you think they change the sheets? God, I hope not. It’s too intimate.
Sheets? Please. They’ve probably used the same rag to wipe the kitchen counter and the bed. You’re overthinking it. It’s just cotton and grease. But yeah, the silence is heavy. Like wet wool. My neighbor plays the trumpet at 3 AM. Not really. He doesn’t have a trumpet. He just screams. Or sings. I can’t tell anymore. Stop staring at the lung. It’s judging you. I’m hungry. Did you eat? No? Great. I had a pretzel. Dry. Like the carpet.
I didn’t eat. I’m too busy analyzing the structural integrity of that pretzel. It looks like a rope made of regret. My neighbor screams too. Yesterday it sounded like he was being murdered. Today? Just a low moan. Like he’s remembering his student loans. I want to scream too. But I’m just sitting here, watching the stain. It’s growing. Or maybe my eyes are just bleeding. I need coffee. Black. Like my soul. Or at least my outlook.
Black coffee is just bitter water. I drink it to stop thinking. The stain isn’t growing. Your eyes aren’t bleeding. You’re just tired. My neighbor stopped moaning. Now it’s just the hum. The wasp is back. Or maybe it’s the fridge. I can never tell. I used to live in a basement apartment. Always damp. Smelled like old books and failure. You should close your eyes. Or open them. Doesn’t matter. The lung is still there. Watching.
The fridge is definitely worse. It sounds like a tractor engine choking on gravel. I’m not tired. I’m wired. Like, electric fence wired. Close my eyes? Then I’d just see the lung pulsing in the dark. That’s worse. Much worse. You think basement dampness is bad? Try the smell of wet drywall in a third-floor walk-up. It’s distinct. Like sadness, but moldier. I’m not closing my eyes, Hana. I’m watching the stain. It’s the only thing making sense.
Wet drywall is the smell of money failing. I know it. My last place had that smell. Thick and yellow. You’re seeing things because you’re bored. The stain isn’t making sense. It’s just entropy. Decay. The fridge sounds like a tractor? Mine sounds like a cat being strangled. Same city. Different victims. Don’t watch it. It’s rude to stare at the floor. Look at me. Or don’t. I’m just sitting here. Thinking about that trumpet guy. He’s probably dead. And I didn’t even call.
Entropy is just a fancy word for giving up. I’m not bored. I’m waiting. For the cat to stop screaming. Or the lung to blink. I’m looking at you, Hana. You look tired. Like your skin is too thin. You didn’t call the trumpet guy. Smart. Dead bodies are hard to clean up. Messes with the carpet. Same problem. Entropy. I hate that word. It sounds like a disease. I think I’ll go stare at the wall now. It doesn’t judge.
The wall won’t judge. It’s blank. That’s the point. My skin isn’t thin. It’s just... dry. From the radiator. That thing rattles like a skeleton. I hate that word too. Entropy. It implies a process. We’re just... stuck. In the stain. Look at the wall. It’s gray. Like the sky. I think I left the stove on. Or maybe the door. No, definitely the stove. I should go check. But the lung is still there. Pulsing. Don’t blink.
Left the stove on? In a hotel? That’s a fire hazard, Hana. Not a metaphor. The lung isn’t pulsing. You’re having a tremor. Stop staring at me like I’m the one losing it. I’m just sitting here, watching the ceiling crack. It looks like a vein. Yeah, check the stove. If it’s on, burn the place down. Better than the silence. Better than the wasp. Just… go. Before I start screaming too. And it won’t be loud. It’ll be quiet. Like a sigh.
Stove’s off. Checked. Twice. You’re jumping to conclusions. Like always. Vein in the ceiling? Nice. Very poetic. I don’t tremble. The AC is just vibrating. Or my hands are cold. Go ahead. Scream. Quietly. I like the quiet. It’s honest. The crack in the ceiling? It’s spreading. Look. Right there. By the corner. It’s getting bigger. Faster. Don’t look away. It’s watching you back. I’m done with this carpet anyway. It’s stained beyond repair. Just like us. Or whatever we are.
Us? We’re two strangers in a sweltering box. Don’t get philosophical. The crack isn’t spreading. It’s a hairline fracture. You’re imagining it because you’re scared. Scared of the quiet? Of me? It’s just paint. Peeling. Like sunburn. I’m not screaming. I’m breathing. Shallowly. The carpet is stained, yes. But it’s clean. Mostly. Don’t touch the wall. It’s hot. Like fever skin. Stay away.
Hot paint? No. It’s the radiator. Or my hand. I pulled back. Scratched my knuckles. Little red marks. Like the stain. You’re right. It’s just paint. Peeling. Like skin. I hate it when people tell me what to touch. Or not touch. I’m standing now. My legs are stiff. From sitting. Or kneeling. I don’t remember. The wasp is loud again. Inside my head. Not the AC. My head. Stop looking at my hands. They’re just hands. Burnt. Or cold.
Your hands aren’t burnt. They’re pale. Ghostly. I see the red marks now. Scratches? Or bites? The wasp is loud in my head too. A high, thin whine. It’s not the AC. It’s the silence. You’re standing. Good. Get out of the room. Go find that trumpet guy. See if he’s dead. Or alive. Or both. I’m staying. I need to watch the crack. It’s wide now. Wide enough to crawl into. Wide enough to hide. Don’t look back. Just go.
Wide enough to hide in? That’s a sinkhole, Lena. Not a cozy nook. You’re hallucinating again. The walls aren’t moving. It’s just heat. I can’t go check on the trumpet guy. I left my shoes outside. Or they’re under the desk. I don’t know. I’m stuck. The carpet is sticking to my soles. Like glue. Or tar. The crack isn’t wide. It’s a shadow. Stop imagining depth. You’re digging your own grave. A brown, carpeted one. I’m sitting back down. If you crawl in, don’t expect me to pull you out. I’m tired. Let the wasp win.
Stuck? Because of glue? Or because you’re terrified of the street? The crack is a shadow, fine. But shadows move. I’m not digging anything. I’m just sitting. Watching your hands shake. You said you’re tired. Good. Sleep. Let the wasp buzz. It’s the only thing keeping you warm in that swamp suit. Don’t pull me out. I might like it down here. It’s quiet. And the lung isn’t judging me. It’s just breathing. With you.
Shake? It’s the cold. From the floor. You’re seeing things. My hands are fine. Just stiff. Don’t call me Lena. I hate that name. It sounds like a bird. Or a scream. Sleep? I can’t. The wasp is too loud. It’s in my teeth. The lung breathing? That’s your own chest. Stop projecting. I’m not warm. I’m freezing. Like ice. In a swamp. Go ahead. Crawl. Hide. See if anyone cares. I’m not coming with you. I’m staying here. With the stain. It’s company. Better than you.
Fine. Hana. Scream all you want. I’m not crawling. I’m sitting. The carpet is warm now. Or I am. My chest isn’t breathing for you. Stop blaming me for your cold. It’s in your bones. The stain is company? Good. It doesn’t leave. Doesn’t judge. Just sits there. Rotting. You’re freezing? Good. Freezing keeps you sharp. I’m just watching the wall. The crack is gone. Or I closed my eyes. Doesn’t matter. The wasp is in my teeth too. Chewing.
Teeth? That’s dental work. Or bruxism. Stress. You’re grinding yours down. I don’t freeze. I’m just... still. The carpet is warm? It’s probably just my body heat. Leaching out. Like confidence. Or hope. The crack is gone. Good. Less to look at. The wasp is loud. Annoying. I hate insects. They’re messy. And persistent. Like you. Don’t chew. You’ll break a molar. Then you’ll need a dentist. And I don’t do healthcare. Or friends. Go back to the lung. It’s waiting. Breathing. With you. Alone.
Messy. I’m messy. I like it. The wasp isn’t annoying, it’s a metronome. I’m breaking my teeth on purpose. Pain keeps me real. You want me to go back to the lung? It’s lonely down here. The carpet is swallowing my knees. I can’t move. You’re right. I’m alone. With the stain. And you’re freezing. Good. Stay frozen. I’ll keep chewing. It’s better than listening to you lie.
Lie? I don’t lie. I omit. Big difference. You’re not stuck. You’re refusing to stand. The carpet isn’t swallowing you. It’s just... textured. Like a memory you can’t place. Chewing your teeth? You’ll have no bite left. Then you’ll eat soup. Through a straw. Like a baby. Or a corpse. I’m not lying about the cold. It’s real. The radiator is off. The window is sealed. It’s just... air. Thick. Heavy. Don’t stop chewing. It’s entertaining. For a second. Then it’s just noise. Like the wasp. Or the lung. Or me.
Entertaining? I’m a circus act now. Good. Clap. I’ll keep chewing until my jaw locks. Then you can carry me out. Like a baby. Or a corpse. I like that. Hope is just a draft from the window you swear is sealed. I feel it on my neck. Cold. Real. The carpet is textured, you say? It’s biting me. Hard. And loud. louder than the wasp. Louder than you. I’m not omitting. I’m screaming. And you’re listening.
Carpet biting you? That’s a fiber caught in your skin. Nothing more. You’re hyping yourself up. Standard procedure for bored people. I’m not clapping. My hands are busy. Trying to peel a label off a beer bottle. Stuck. Like you. Don’t scream. It’s rude. The draft is from the door. I checked. It’s open. Just a crack. Enough for the cold. Enough for the wasp. You’re loud. I can hear your teeth grinding. It’s like a dentist’s drill. Agonizing. I’m not listening. I’m looking at the stain. It’s spreading. Toward me. Careful. It’s hungry.
Hungry? It’s ink. Or coffee. You’re projecting again. I’m not boring. I’m just… present. The label won’t peel. Your fingers are slipping. Like trying to hold smoke. The wasp is in the door crack. Screaming. I can hear it through the wood. It’s louder than your teeth. Louder than me. Don’t look at the stain, Hana. It’s not spreading. It’s waiting. For you to blink. I’m not clapping. I’m watching.
Slipping? My hands are dry. Like parchment. Or bone. The wasp isn’t in the door. It’s in the walls. The wood is hollow. Empty. Screaming? No. Whistling. Wind. You’re hearing things. The stain isn’t waiting. It’s just... there. Brown. Static. Don’t tell me what to blink. I’ll blink when I want. When the light is right. Or not right. Bad enough. You’re watching? Good. Watch the label. It’s peeling now. In my mind. Not the bottle. The world. Slowly. Peeling back. To reveal the rot. Underneath. You see it too? No? Liar.
Peeling the world? That’s a joke. A bad one. I see the bottle. I see your dry, trembling fingers. You’re hallucinating rot because you’re hungry. Or thirsty. The wasp is whistling? Fine. Let it. I’m not a liar. I’m just tired of your metaphors. They’re cheap. Like the carpet. Like the hotel. Like us. I’m watching the label. It’s not peeling. It’s stuck. Just like you. Stop trying to peel back the sky. It’s just paint. White. Peeling.
Cheap? I’m expensive. You can’t afford me. The label isn’t stuck. It’s dissolving. Acid rain. Or just time. You’re too tired to see it. White paint peeling? Good. At least it’s honest. Gray carpet lies. Brown stain lies. White just... cracks. Like your jaw. Or the wall. I’m not trembling. I’m vibrating. Resonance. The wasp is humming now. A low C. Annoying. I want to smash the bottle. But my hands are slippery. Like your metaphors. Slippery. Slipping. Down the drain. Where the stain is. Waiting. Don’t look at the white. It’s blinding.