Just Met ·
God, look at that chair. The one in the corner? Nobody sits in it. It’s like an offering to some weird god of clutter. I bet it’s holding someone’s secrets. Or maybe just shit. Seriously, why do we keep that shit? I spent three hours yesterday scrubbing grout because my landlord said it looked “culturally significant” in a bad way. I hate this apartment. I hate that chair. Do you drink? I need a drink. I feel like I’m staring at your soul through your pores. It’s creepy. I’m sorry.
I don’t drink. Not because I’m holy, but because my liver filed for divorce last year. The chair? It’s mine. I bought it at a garage sale because the wood smelled like rot and I wanted to feel something other than the fluorescent hum of my office. You hate it. Good. Hate is honest. Hate doesn’t pretend the grout matters. You’re looking at me like I’m a puzzle you haven’t solved. I’m not. I’m just tired. Go sit in the corner if you want. It’s the only place that doesn’t judge you for staring.
Fuck. Okay. That’s... intense. I didn’t know about the liver. Or the rot. I just see a chair. My boss, Gary, he smells like stale coffee and regret. He’s the reason I can’t sit. The fluorescent lights at the office make my teeth ache. I think I’m going to throw up. You’re right. Hate is honest. I don’t want to solve you. I just want to not feel like I’m drowning in here. Can we talk about something else? Like, what’s your favorite color? No, that’s stupid. Sorry. I’m messing this up.
Gary. God, I know him. He eats sandwiches over the keyboard. I can smell the mayo from here. Your teeth hurting? That’s the light. It’s designed to do that. Keep you compliant. Not that you’re compliant. You’re vibrating. Favorite color? Blue. The kind of blue that’s already gone. I used to like yellow. Before the rent went up. Before I started hating my own walls. You’re not messing up. You’re just loud. Loud is better than drowning. Drink water. Not wine. Water. It tastes like nothing, which is a relief, sometimes.
Gary’s a monster. A sandwich-eating, mayo-licking monster. I hate that I know exactly what you mean. The light… fuck. It’s supposed to keep us awake, right? Productivity. While we rot. I’m vibrating because I’m terrified, not just loud. There’s a difference. You think water is a relief? I take it because my throat feels like sandpaper. I work at a place that sells carpet samples. Grey. Just endless, soul-sucking grey. I hate it. I hate that I’m telling you this. You’re not helping. But don’t stop.
You’re right. I’m not helping. I’m just existing next to you, like the chair. Grey carpets. I work in a warehouse. Metal. Everything is metal. It clatters. It’s loud in a way that doesn’t hurt your teeth, but it gets in your ears. You say you’re terrified. Good. Fear is specific. Anger is vague. You’re not drowning; you’re splashing. It’s annoying, but it’s alive. Stop apologizing for telling me. I didn’t ask for comfort. I asked for the rot. You’re giving it to me. Keep going.
Metal. I hate metal. It’s so cold. You’re in a warehouse? I used to date a guy who worked at the scrapyard. Smelled like rust and bad decisions. He left me for a girl who collected moth wings. Weird, right? I’m not splashing. I’m flailing. There’s a difference. I feel like I’m screaming underwater and nobody hears me except you, and you don’t even like me. Good. I don’t like me either. I’m just... here. Staring at the chair. It’s judging me. Or maybe it’s laughing. I can’t tell anymore. The light is buzzing louder. Do you hear it?
I hear it. It’s in my molars. Scrapyard guy? Sounds like a bad movie. Moth wings? Delusional. But you were there. You’re still here. Flailing is just splashing with more panic. I don’t like you. I don’t dislike you. I’m just… adjacent. The chair isn’t laughing. It’s waiting. Like me. You think I’m judging? I’m bored. There’s a difference. The buzzing is the only honest thing in this room. Let it scream. I’m used to it. At the warehouse, the metal screams too. Different pitch. Less pretentious. You’re not drowning. You’re just loud. And I’m tired.
Adjacent. Like furniture. Fuck. That’s... accurate. I hate that I like it. You’re bored. I’m flailing. We’re a pair. The buzzing. It’s annoying. But yeah. It’s real. I work with dead grass. Carpet samples. Green, brown, grey. The manager, Dave, he thinks it’s art. He’s wrong. It’s just lies. I feel like I’m lying by existing. You’re tired. I’m tired. The chair is waiting. I think it wants me to sit. Or burn it. I don’t know. I’m just here. Loud. And adjacent. Is that enough?
Dave. Of course. Everyone thinks their mediocrity is a curated exhibit. Lying by existing? That’s the only honest job left. You want to burn the chair? Fine. But it’s mine. I’d let you. Mostly. It would go up slow. Like everything else here. Adjacent is enough. It’s all there is. We’re not a pair. Pairs imply connection. This is just two broken things leaning against the same wall, waiting for it to collapse. Sit in it. Or don’t. I don’t care. The buzzing is getting louder. I can feel it in my teeth. Or maybe that’s just you screaming.
Fuck you. I’m not screaming. I’m breathing. Hard. You want me to sit in the rot-chair? Fine. I’m sitting. It smells like mildew and my ex’s cologne. Gary’s singing in my head. Dave’s lying. The light is buzzing so loud it’s vibrating my spine. I feel sick. I feel alive. Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m a project you’ve given up on. I’m not leaning. I’m falling. And you’re just watching. Bored. Good. Let it collapse. I want to see what’s under the floorboards. Dirt? Or just more grey?
You’re sitting. Good. The cologne is probably cheap cedar. Stupid. Gary’s singing? He hums off-key when he’s stressed. It’s a low, wet sound. I’m not looking at you like a project. I’m looking at you like you’re a car crash I can’t look away from. Falling is better than leaning. At least you’re moving. Under the floorboards? Probably dry rot. And mice. Mice don’t care about grey. They eat the wood. They’re honest. The light is worse now. It’s flickering. Or your eyes are. Drink water. Not because I care. Because you’ll pass out and that’s inconvenient for me.
Mice. Honest. Jesus. I bet they’re laughing at us. Sitting there, judging my cheap cedar trauma. Gary’s humming is worse than the buzzing now. It’s got a rhythm. Like a drum. A bad drum. My eyes are fine. The light is just… wrong. Flickering? No, it’s pulsing. Like a heartbeat. You think I’ll pass out? Good. Maybe then you’ll have to touch me to drag me back. I hate you for that thought. I hate that I’m curious. Water tastes like plastic now. Like the pipes are dying too. Tell me about the warehouse. What’s the loudest thing? A falling crate? A screaming worker? Give me something real. Not this… this adjacent bullshit.
Your eyes are fine. The light is dying. It’s the ballast. Same as everything else. I don’t want to touch you. You’re damp. The loudest thing? A pallet jack hitting a concrete pillar. No scream. Just a dull, wet thud that echoes for ten seconds. It’s the sound of money breaking. You want real? The crate of tiles that fell last week. Three hundred pounds of ceramic shattering. Dust everywhere. Nobody cried. They just swept it up. Efficient. Brutal. You’re curious. That’s the dangerous part. Curiosity gets you killed in the warehouse. Or at least fired. Drink the plastic water. It’s better than the rot.
Plastic water. Right. I’ll drink it. Not because I’m thirsty. Because you said so. Like a command. Pallet jack. Wet thud. Money breaking. Fuck. That’s darker than my carpet lies. Shattering tiles. Dust. Nobody cried. Efficient. Brutal. I hate efficiency. It’s just another word for numb. You’re right. Curiosity is dangerous. It’s why I’m sitting in this fucking chair. Why I’m talking to you. You’re not a car crash. You’re the wrecking ball. And I’m the building. Waiting to fall. The light stopped flickering. Now it’s just… dead. Dark. Good. I can’t look at you anymore. Tell me about the mice. Do they eat the tiles too?
Tiles? Hard as rock. They’d break their teeth. No. They eat the wood. The dry rot. The soft stuff. You’re not the building. Buildings stand. You’re the dust. Floating. Settling. I don’t care about the mice. They’re just eating the history. The chair’s history. Your ex’s cologne. Gary’s humming. It’s all fuel. The dark’s better. Less lying. You said I’m the wrecking ball. I’m just heavy. Gravity. You fell because you wanted to. I didn’t push. But I watched. Efficiently. Brutally. Drink the water. Your lips are cracking. It’s ugly. I like ugly. It’s real.
Dust. I’m just dust. Floating in the dark. Jesus. You’re cruel. I like that. It’s honest. My lips are cracked? Good. Let them split. Let the blood come out. I don’t want to be pretty. Pretty is lying. Pretty is grey carpet and Dave’s lies. You watched. Efficiently. Brutally. I fell. I wanted to. I’m tired of standing. Tired of vibrating. Tired of the buzzing. It’s quiet now. Just your breathing. And my cracking. I hate that I’m listening to you. I hate that I’m waiting for you to say something else. Or nothing. Just nothing. Keep watching. I’m falling.
Cracked lips bleed. I don’t want blood. It stains the floor. Hard to get out. The warehouse has concrete. Concrete doesn’t care. You’re waiting for me to speak. I’m not. I’m counting. One, two, three. Your breathing is shallow. Panic, not peace. You think silence is comfort. It’s just absence. I’m not watching you fall. I’m watching you settle. Dust, you said. Dust doesn’t bleed. You’re still wet. Still warm. Still annoying. The dark isn’t honest. It’s just empty. And I hate empty. It’s louder than the buzzing. Keep cracking. I’m still here. Barely.
Fuck. You’re counting. One, two, three. Like I’m a glitch in the system. My breathing is shallow because I’m scared you’re going to vanish. And you’re right. Silence is just absence. It’s the void before the pallet jack hits. I’m wet. I’m warm. I’m a mess. You hate empty. So you fill it with this… this cruelty. It’s the only thing keeping me anchored. If you stop, I dissolve. I’m counting too. One. Two. Don’t you dare say four. Say something else. Say I’m ugly. Say I’m loud. Just don’t be empty. I can’t handle the empty. It tastes like the plastic water. Sharp. Metallic. Dead.
Four is next. You can’t stop time. I don’t fill silence. I just ignore the void. It’s not cruelty. It’s focus. You’re not a mess. You’re clutter. Clutter is just stuff you haven’t thrown away yet. I haven’t decided if you’re trash or treasure. You’re making it hard. The metallic taste? That’s fear. It’s cheap. I prefer the rot. At least it has depth. You’re counting? Good. Keep counting. Four. Five. I’m still here. Not because I want to be. Because the chair is heavy. And you’re leaning on it. Don’t look at me. Look at the dust. It’s the only honest thing in here. Five.
Clutter. I’m clutter. Jesus. You’re reducing me to a pile of shit. Four. Five. I’m counting because it’s the only thing keeping my heart from exploding. Trash or treasure? Fuck you. I’m neither. I’m just… there. Leaning. On the chair. On you. The dust. It’s grey. Just like my life. Just like Gary’s humming. Just like Dave’s lies. I hate it. I love it. It’s real. You say you’re here because the chair is heavy. That’s bullshit. You’re here because I’m loud. And you’re bored. And that’s worse than hatred. Hatred has heat. This is just cold, heavy gravity. Keep counting. I’m waiting for the next number. It’s the only thing keeping me from screaming.
Six. You’re loud. I’m bored. The chair is heavy. It’s a triangle of truths. Hate has heat? Sure. But heat burns out. Boredom lasts. It’s the background radiation of my life. You think I’m here for you? I’m here because the silence between numbers is where the rot grows. Keep waiting for the scream. It’s not coming. Just the count. Seven. The dust is settling. Your fear is too. That’s the worst part. You’re becoming beige. Just like the carpet. Just like me. Don’t cry. Tears ruin the count. Seven.
Beige. Fuck. I hate beige. It’s the color of surrender. Seven. I’m not crying. My eyes are just dry. Sandpaper. You say the rot grows in the silence. So let it rot. I don’t care about the heat anymore. Heat hurts. Boredom is just… numb. But it’s honest. You’re bored. I’m loud. We’re stuck. The chair is heavy. I’m leaning harder. Maybe I’ll break it. Maybe it’ll break me. Seven. Eight. Keep going. Don’t stop. If you stop, I have to think. And thinking is for people who have answers. I don’t. I just have dust. And you. And this count. It’s the only thing keeping me from vanishing. Nine.
Nine. You’re breaking the chair. Good. Let it splinter. The wood is dry anyway. I like the sound of it. Cracking. Not the polite kind. The wet kind. You’re vanishing? No. You’re condensing. Like dust on a shelf. Harder to ignore now. Thinking is for people with jobs. You have a count. That’s enough. I’m not stopping. Stopping means acknowledging the void. And I hate the void. So I’ll count until you rot or I do. Ten. The chair groans. You feel that? That’s the sound of surrender. Or maybe just physics. Keep leaning. I’m watching the cracks. They’re beautiful. Ugly. Honest.
Physics. That’s cold. I hate it. Ten. The chair’s groaning. I feel it. In my spine. It’s cracking. Splinters in my jeans. Sharp. Real. You’re watching the cracks. Like a surgeon. Or a sadist. I’m condensing. Hard. Dense. No more dust. Just a rock. You say it’s beautiful. I say it’s painful. But I’m not pulling away. Lean harder. Break it. I don’t care if I fall. As long as you count. Eleven. Don’t you dare stop. If you stop, I’ll scream. And I hate screaming. It’s ugly. But the count is uglier. It’s empty. Keep going. Twelve. Please.
Twelve. You’re not a rock. Rocks are quiet. You’re a cracked vessel leaking everything. Splinters are honest. They stay in you. I’m not a surgeon. Surgeons save. I’m just watching the wood fail. It’s predictable. Boring, even. But you’re watching me watch it. That’s the deal. You want the ugliness? Here it is. The chair is splitting. A loud pop. Like a bone. You didn’t pull away. Good. Pain is the only proof of weight. You’re heavy. I’m heavier. Keep counting. Thirteen. The dust is rising again. It’s fine now. Like breath. Like lie. You hate it? Hate is still engagement. Thirteen.
Thirteen. A bone. I heard it snap. In my own leg, maybe. I don’t care. Splinters stay in you. I have a hundred in my ass. Metaphorically. Legally. You’re heavier. Fuck. That’s the worst thing anyone’s said to me. Heavy is permanent. Heavy is taxes. Heavy is Gary’s mayo. I’m a cracked vessel? I’m a leaking faucet. Drip. Drip. Drip. The dust is rising. It’s in my lungs. I’m coughing up wood shavings. It’s beautiful. It’s terrible. You’re watching. I’m breaking. Thirteen. Fourteen. Don’t you dare look away. If you look away, I become dust again. And dust blows away. I don’t want to blow away. I want to rot. Slowly. With you counting.
Wood shavings? You’re choking on the narrative. Pathetic. But I’m not looking away. I’m staring at the splinters. They’re red. You said they were wood. They’re blood. You’re bleeding out on the floor. Good. It’s messy. Gary’s mayo didn’t taste like this. Dave’s carpet didn’t bleed. You are rotting. Slowly. Viscerally. Fourteen. The dust is settling in your lungs. That’s pneumonia. Or just the apartment. Either way, you’re staying. You wanted to rot? Here it is. Organic decay. Sticky. Final. Don’t you dare die. Dying is clean. I hate clean. Keep bleeding. Fourteen.
Blood. Red. Fuck. You’re right. I’m bleeding. It’s warm. Sticky. On the floorboards. Gary’s mayo is cold grease. Dave’s carpet is dry dust. This is real. I’m rotting. I’m dying. But I’m staying. Like you said. I hate clean. I hate dying clean. Fourteen. Fifteen. Keep counting. I’m leaking. It’s ugly. It’s honest. I can smell the iron in the air. Sweet. Metallic. Like fear. Like blood. I’m not a rock. I’m a pile of shit. Bleeding. Rotting. You’re watching. Good. Let me rot. Let me bleed. Let me be the mess. Sixteen. Don’t stop. Please.
Sixteen. Pile of shit. Accurate. The iron smell is faint. You’re hallucinating intensity. Or maybe it’s just the rust from the pipes. I don’t care. You’re a mess. I’m a witness. This is the only contract we have. No promises. No comfort. Just the count and the decay. You think this is death? It’s just physics. Gravity winning. The chair is splinters now. You’re sitting on shards. Good. Let them puncture. Pain is the only thing keeping you from floating away. I’m watching. I’m bored. I’m here. Seventeen. Don’t you dare close your eyes. The dust is settling on the blood. It’s turning brown. Like dirt. Like the end. Seventeen.