What time is it? Seriously. I keep staring at that stupid digital board in the terminal, even though I know it’s lying. The floor here is this grey, looped carpet that traps every grain of sand and gum wrapper from the last decade. It’s got a specific damp smell, like wet wool and stale coffee. I kicked a pebble under the seat earlier. Can’t find it. Don’t want to. Just sitting here, vibrating. My shoes are killing me. The leather’s cracking.
My watch says it’s late enough to be illegal. The board’s blinking that same red digit. I kicked a screw into the gutter yesterday. Still there. Leather cracks happen. You just buy new ones. The smell is worse if you lean left. Don’t look at the floor. Look at me. I’m real. The board is a ghost. My shoes are killing me too.
New ones? You just drop five hundred bucks on sneakers? My feet are sweating through the socks. I can feel the rubber sole peeling off the left one. It’s slapping against the concrete. That sound is driving me crazy. Slap, slap. Like a wet towel hitting a wall. And you think I want to look at you? You look like you haven’t slept in a week. Your eyes are bloodshot. The board’s not a ghost, Frank. It’s a timer. And we’re out of time. That screw in the gutter is probably kicking me back now. Every vibration.
Five hundred? Try five. The sale bin at the back. You’re hearing things. The slab is just concrete. My eyes are red from the fluorescent hum. It buzzes in my teeth. You want me to look away? Fine. I’m looking at the pebble. Or where it should be. If it’s under the seat, it’s part of the floor now. Like the gum. Like the sand. We’re sitting on a decade of trash. Stop listening to the rubber. It’s lying too.
Five dollars? Sure. Buy me those. Or whatever. I’m not looking at the pebble. I’m looking at the receipt in my pocket. Crumpled. Smudged with grease. Three items. Total eighty-four. I keep checking it. Like if I stare hard enough, the numbers will rearrange themselves into something that makes sense. Eighty-four. That’s not a number. That’s a verdict. And the rubber isn’t lying. It’s telling the truth about my pride. It’s peeling. Just like the paint on the wall behind us. Flaking off in big, yellow chunks.
Eighty-four buys two coffees and a pack of smokes. I bought the shoes. You bought anxiety. The paint flakes if you poke it. It’s been falling since the eighties. Your receipt is a list of lies. You needed caffeine, not closure. The glue on your shoe is old. Like the wall. Like my patience. Stop staring at the paper. It’s just ink. The smell is getting worse. It smells like failure. Or maybe just damp wool. I can’t tell anymore. Just sit still. Let the slapping stop.
Closure? I needed caffeine. Badly. My head’s pounding behind the eyes. Like a drum. A stuck one. You’re right. The glue is old. Everything’s old here. The carpet, the lights, my patience too. I tried standing up. Knees popped. Loud. Like dry twigs. The smell… yeah. Damp wool. And something else. Sweet. Rotten. Like fruit left in a car. I’ll stop staring at the paper. It’s just paper. But the slapping… it’s inside my head now. I can’t turn it off. Frank. Do you hear it? Really? Or am I just… glitching?
Glitching? Please. You’re just dehydrated. Drink the coffee. The slapping is the pavement. I hear it too. It’s rhythmic. Like a heartbeat. But yours is the loud one. My knees don’t pop. I just don’t move. That’s the trick. Stay still. The fruit smell is just the trash bin behind the vending machine. It’s been rotting since Tuesday. Or maybe last week. Time is sticky here. Don’t look at the board. Look at the stain on your shirt. It’s spreading. That’s real. The rest is noise.
Stain? I don’t have a stain. I’m wearing a plain white tee. Cotton. It’s sweating through now. Cool spots. Chilly. Like I’m naked. You’re seeing things, Frank. Or making them up. The coffee’s cold. Acidic. Tastes like battery acid and burnt beans. I can’t drink it. My stomach’s turning. Nausea rising. Like bile. Don’t tell me to stay still. I’m trembling. Can’t help it. Adrenaline dump. Or withdrawal. From what? Sleep? Sanity? The board is blinking faster. Or is it my eyes? Blinking. Blinking. The stain is real. I can see it. Darkening. Spreading. Like mold. Or guilt. Keep talking. Don’t stop. If you stop, I’ll hear the slapping again. Louder.
Mold grows fast. That’s what it is. Not guilt. Biology. You’re shivering because the AC is broken. It’s been broken since the boss fired the guy who fixed it. Drink the acid. It’ll kill the taste. The board isn’t blinking. Your eyes are twitching. Dry. Stop blinking. Keep them open until they burn. That stops the slapping. I’m not stopping. I’m talking about the pebble. It’s still under the seat. I kicked it there. I can feel it in my heel. Sharp. Real. Don’t listen to the shoe. Listen to me. I’m the only thing here that doesn’t peel.
Peel? Don’t get poetic. I’m peeling. Look at my hand. Cuticle torn. Raw red. You kicked that screw? Liar. You’re sitting still as a statue. My heel is throbbing. Not a pebble. A nail. Or glass. Can’t tell. The coffee’s lukewarm now. Swallowing it. Burns going down. Good. Pain is specific. Like the cut on my thumb. From the keychain. Jingles in my pocket. Clink, clink. Rhythm. Different from the shoe. Louder. Tell me about the boss. Who fired the guy? Name him. Something real. Not mold. Not ghosts. A name. Give me a name. Please.
Miller. He fired Vinny. Tuesday. Vinny cried in the breakroom. Smelled like cheap cologne and sweat. Miller doesn’t care. He cares about the numbers. Like your eighty-four. The nail’s in your heel. Push through it. It’ll anchor you. The jingling is annoying. Stop moving your hand. Let the keychain die. Miller’s gone. He took the good pens. I’m still here. Bleeding slightly on the armrest. Look at that. Real. Not mold. Just blood. It dries brown. Like the carpet.