You ever notice how a roundabout is just a polite lie? Like, we pretend it’s flowing, efficient. But really it’s just everyone waiting for someone else to blink. I sat in one for twenty minutes. Just staring at the center island. It wasn’t even busy.
Twenty minutes? You’re exaggerating. It’s usually seconds. But... I get it. The hesitation. It’s not the design, it’s the trust gap. People assume the guy on the left is bluffing. So they stop. And now everyone’s stuck. I saw a guy actually get out of his car once. Just stood there. Checked his watch. Pathetic.
He got out? Seriously? That’s not a guy, that’s a hazard. I passed it. Didn’t even roll down the window. Just felt that hollow little knot in my chest. Like I was missing the point of being alive. My shift supervisor would have written me up for idling that long.
He didn’t check his watch. He was crying. I saw it. The stoop of his shoulders. I told myself I was wrong. I’m not. But you’re spooked. It’s the night shift talking. Your brain is filling in gaps with horror stories. Go home, Sam. Or stay here. It’s all the same gray light anyway.
He wasn't crying. He was checking his watch. I know what I saw. You're imagining things, Pia. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. My shift isn't over. I can't go home. The lights are humming. Have you heard them lately? Like bees in a jar.
Humming? No. That’s just the transformer. Old, faulty. You’re hearing things because you’re tired. I see it in the way you hold your pen. Shaking. Go home. Please. The transformer isn’t alive. It’s just metal. Stupid, dead metal. Unlike whatever is making that sound. It’s getting louder.
Stop it. You’re doing that thing. The one where you paint me crazy to avoid looking at the wires. I’m fine. The pen is just heavy. Or my hand is. I don’t know. I’m not going home. Not yet. The air tastes like copper. Do you smell it? Or is that just you trying to sell the bit again?
Copper. Right. Blood. Or maybe the wiring’s actually frayed. I didn’t say anything earlier because I didn’t want to panic you. Stupid of me. It is buzzing, though. Harder now. Like teeth grinding. You’re right. I am selling it. Because if I admit the wires are wrong, I have to admit I’m trapped here with you. And I’m not sure you’re fully there.
I’m plenty here. You’re the one drifting. Trapped? It’s a Tuesday. Or Thursday. Whatever. The wires are fine. I checked. Twice. You just want an exit. I’m not giving you one. Not while the hum is this loud. Sit down.
Sit? My legs are dead weight. You checked the wires? With what? Your eyes? They’re bloodshot, Sam. I can see the cracks in the sclera. You’re not checking anything. You’re just staring at the ceiling. The humming isn’t getting louder. It’s stopping. Did you hear that? Silence is worse. It means they’re listening.
They’re not listening. Stop it. Just stop. I’m staring at the ceiling because I’m trying to remember where I left my keys. I’m not having this. You’re imagining things. The silence is just… silence. It’s annoying. Not terrifying. Give me the light. I need the light.
You don’t have keys. You live in the breakroom. That’s what you said. Or did you? I’m handing you the flashlight. My hand isn’t shaking. See? It’s steady. The beam hits the floor. There’s nothing there. Just dust. And that stupid roundabout sticker on the ceiling. Why is there a sticker? Take it.
I didn’t say I live in the breakroom. I said I work here. Big difference. You’re twisting words. And that sticker? That’s mine. From that trip to Jersey. You knew that. Or did you forget that too? Take the light. It’s too bright. It burns my eyes. Make it stop.
Jersey. Right. The sticker. It was blue. Not yellow. You’re losing it. I didn’t forget. I just... didn’t want to remind you. The light is fine. It’s your eyes adjusting. Or dilating. Stop squinting. It’s making me tired. Just take the damn flashlight. And sit down. Before you trip over the imaginary wires you swore were checked.
Blue? No. It’s yellow. Faded, but yellow. You’re lying. Or you forgot. Doesn’t matter. I’m not sitting. Sitting means giving up. I’m standing. The light is steady. You’re the one shaking. Stop looking at me like that. I know what I saw. The sticker is yellow. I’m going to put it back. Or peel it off. I haven’t decided.
Yellow? It was blue. I’m not shaking. My hands are fine. You’re sweating. Look at your shirt. Dark spot under the arm. You’re hot. You’re always hot lately. Don’t peel it. If you touch the ceiling, you’ll get stuck. Like the guy in the roundabout. He’s still there. I think. I need to sit. Just for a second. Let me lean.
You’re pathetic. Lean on the wall. It’s cold. I’m not sweating. It’s just heat. The bulb’s bad. You’re hallucinating blue. I’m putting the sticker back. It belongs there. Don’t touch the ceiling. You’ll stick. Like him. I saw him. He’s still spinning.
Spinning? In a stationary building? You’re cracking. I’ll lean. The wall is fine. Cold. Good. I’m not hallucinating. I saw the sticker. Blue. Always blue. But you’re yelling now. Loud. Violent. I’m sorry. I’m tired. Go put your sticker back. Or peel it. I don’t care. Just stop looking at me like I’m the one who’s broken. I’m just waiting for the shift to end. It’s been years. Hasn’t it?
Years? No. It’s five minutes. You’re lying about the time. The clock says 3:14. Always 3:14. You want it to be years so you don’t have to go back to your apartment. To the empty fridge. I’m putting the sticker up. Yellow. It’s yellow. Stop looking at my eyes. Look at the light. It’s blinding.
Three fourteen? That clock’s dead. Battery’s been out since January. I see it. The hands are stuck. Pointing at nothing. You’re fixated. The yellow is... aggressive. It hurts. I’ll look at the light. But it’s not blinding. It’s just flickering. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat. Yours or mine? I can’t tell anymore. Stop holding the flashlight so close. You’re scorching my retina.