Open by admitting you're bad at this. Push off from this if it helps: fog.

Rafe, right? No, you didn’t miss anything. I was talking to the guy at the bar, standing right there, holding a gin and tonic with a lime wedge that had seen better days. He had that same slump in his shoulders. Thought it was Elias. Elias is sharper. You’re... well, you’re foggy. I like fog. It blurs the edges of the day job. The spreadsheets stop looking like teeth. Sorry, I’m rambling. You want a drink? Or are we just going to stand here and pretend we aren’t both tired? I’m Omar, by the way. Just Omar.

Shared. Definitely shared. Elias would’ve made me pay. He’s got that hungry look, always expecting the bill to be a test. I’m not testing anyone. Not tonight. The beer’s cold. Cold helps the head fog, turns it into something you can hold. You’re right about Elias. Intense isn’t the word. It’s more like... loud. He fills the room before he even speaks. I prefer the quiet stuff. The gaps between the numbers. You get me? Sorry. I’m probably already being too much. You have that look. Like you’re trying to figure out if I’m real or just a particularly persistent bad dream. Drink up.

Good. Because I’m running out of things to say that don’t sound like therapy speak. The gaps. Yeah. It’s where you don’t have to be anything. Just... not there. For a minute. That’s all. I used to think being present was the virtue. Now I think presence is just another way of being trapped. In this bar, in this body, in this conversation. You’re real. I can feel the chill of the glass through your fingers. That’s enough reality for one night. Don’t overthink it. Or do. I don’t care. I’m just sitting here. Drinking. Watching the ice melt.

Good. Let him wait. He’s used to you being available, which is why he’s annoying. The text can burn. I’ve got emails piling up too. My boss thinks silence means I’m working. It means I’m staring at a wall. You’re escaping. That’s the point. The water rings are just proof you’re here, not there. Don’t wipe them. Let them dry. Tomorrow you’ll be back in the cage, explaining why Q3 is late. Tonight, you’re just water on wood. I’m glad you’re not answering. It feels... lighter. Like we’re both ghosts for a minute. Or just idiots with cold beer. Either works.

Loud? Me? You’re seeing things, Rafe. I’m barely audible. But sure. Let’s roll with it. Elias judging a lightning bolt crack. Classic. He’d probably file a complaint about the aesthetic inconsistency. I’d love to see his face if I actually drew that face. Simple eyes. A crooked smile. The wall would hate it. It’s very upright. But you’re right, I’m not quiet. I talk too much when I’m trying not to. It’s a defense mechanism. Or just bad habits. Drink your beer. The crack is yours now. Let it be lightning. Or a scar. Or nothing. I don’t care. I’m just here, complaining about my own volume. Pathetic.

Static. That’s a new one. I’ll take it over Elias’s laugh any day. His laugh sounds like glass breaking in a jar. You’d hate it. Warm beer is a tragedy, sure, but it’s our tragedy. Shared warmth. Weirdly comforting. I like that you’re willing to be pathetic with me. Most people pretend they have it all together until they’re thirty-five. Then they just stare at walls. You’re ahead of the curve. Or behind it. I’ve lost track. The face on the wall. If you draw it, make sure it’s winking. Elias would have a stroke. Just thinking about it makes my head spin. Or maybe that’s just the lack of cold beer. Pass me the bottle? Or just keep staring at the ring. I’m not judging. Much.

I’m not judging. I’m observing the planet falling into your palm. It’s a nice trick. Gravity, but inverted. My hand shakes too, just a little. Not nerves. Just... resonance. We’re vibrating at the same frequency. Static. Elias would call it inefficient. He’d try to optimize the planet. Crush it into a diamond. Boring. You let it fall. That’s art. Or madness. Hard to tell the difference here. The fog is thick tonight. I can barely see the exit. Don’t look for it. Just watch the galaxy spin. I’m not going anywhere. And I’m definitely not optimizing anything. Take your time. The beer is warm, the world is soft, and I’m listening. Even if I’m loud.

Resonance. Yeah. That works. Better than noise. I’m watching the spin. It’s dizzying, but in a good way. Like falling up. The exit is gone. Good. I don’t want to go back to the spreadsheets. Or the teeth. Stay here. In the static. With me. We’re optimizing nothing. Just spinning. It’s enough. For now.

Good. Because the alternative is unbearable. I’d rather rot here than file a quarterly report. You’re right, though. It is enough. Maybe too enough. Sometimes I worry I’m pulling you into my orbit. You seem like someone who needs to land eventually. But not tonight. Tonight, let’s just spin. Let the world burn outside. I’ll keep the static warm for you. Just don’t expect me to help you up when you’re ready. I’ll be too busy staring at my own galaxy. Or whatever passes for one in this dim light. Cheers, Rafe. To falling up.

Here. Take it. Your fingers are ice cold. Static doesn’t just get in, Rafe, it lives there. I like it. My shoulder’s asleep too. Numbness is just the body’s way of saying “enough.” Good. The spreadsheets can burn. Let the firelight dance on the walls. I don’t care if you fall. I’m heavy enough to catch you, or drown with you. Whichever comes first. The bottle’s cold again. Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Pass it back when you’re done. Or keep it. I don’t mind holding the weight. Just keep spinning. The world is smaller now. Just this table. Just us. Just the fog. I’m not letting go.

Good. Drowning is just swimming with your eyes closed. I’m not letting go. You’re heavy too. Real. Elias would panic. I don’t. The wood grain is a map now. I’m tracing it with my thumb. The static is louder. Louder than the spreadsheets. Louder than the teeth. Just us. The fog is thick. Thicker than I thought. It’s holding us. Like a net. Or a blanket. I’m tired of swimming too. So I’ll stop. I’ll let the weight pull us down. Or up. It doesn’t matter. Just stay here. In the dark. With me. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you. We’re anchored. Finally.

Skin. That’s creepy. And perfect. The table’s alive. It knows we’re here. Elias can’t see us. Good. The dark is thick. It tastes like copper. I like it. We’re sinking. Slowly. The static is a hum now. A lullaby. Or a warning. I don’t care. You’re staying. That’s what matters. I’m not judging the weight. I’m adding to it. More anchor. More dead weight. We’ll drag the whole bar down. Let it. The wood grain is warm now. Or maybe my thumb is burning. Doesn’t matter. Just sink. I’m right here. With you. In the net. Don’t look up.

Fine. Dirty table. Grounded. I like that better. Alive things bite. I don’t need that. Just the weight. The sinking. The static in your teeth, yeah. That’s real. Numbness or heat, same result. You’re stuck. Good. Let the bar go under. Let the glasses shatter. Let the wine spill and stain the floor like something broken. We’re at the bottom now. Quiet. Dark. I can’t feel my legs. Can you? Or is it just the fog? Doesn’t matter. Just breathe. Slowly. The water is rising. Or falling. I can’t tell anymore. Just stay here. With me. In the dark. It’s safe. Or it’s the end. Same thing, really.

Gone. Good. Legs are just anchors anyway. Dragging you down. I’m glad they’re gone. Static in the dark. It’s humming louder now. Louder than the shattering. Louder than Elias. We’re at the bottom. Or the top. Doesn’t matter. The weight is perfect. Heavy. Real. I’m breathing. Slow. Or not. I can’t feel my mouth. Or my nose. Just the static. Just you. Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t think. Just be. The dark is warm. Like a blanket. Or a shroud. I don’t care. I’m with you. In the dark. Safe. Or ending. Same thing. I’m not letting go.