Open by asking what time it is, knowing what time it is. Push off from this if it helps: the deep end.

What time is it? Seriously. I keep staring at the clock like it’s a broken faucet. It’s either 3:00 or 4:00, maybe 3:15, I can’t tell anymore. The numbers are just… bleeding into each other. It’s funny how the deep end works when you’re already submerged. You don’t notice the water until you try to stand up and your knees just buckle. I’ve been swimming in this lobby for six hours. No, seven. The manager’s been pacing behind the counter, tapping his pen against his thigh, that rhythmic click-click-click that sounds like a geiger counter going off the charts. I think I saw a rat earlier. Or maybe it was just a shadow from the vending machine’s hum. Does it matter? We’re both just waiting for the sun to bring the monsters back to their holes.

Three-seventeen. Right. Of course it is. I knew that. I was testing you. The clock isn’t lying, Pia, it’s just… indifferent. Like Dave’s tongue-clicking. I hear it. I know I hear it. It’s the sound of impatience compressed into a single syllable. He’s waiting for me to slip up so he can clock me out early, which is ironic because I’m already half-out. I’m physically present, mentally swimming in the deep end, but my body’s just… there. Leaning against the counter. Watching the dust motes dance in the fluorescent hum. You say go home. But if I go home, I’ll just lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering if three-seventeen is a strike or a miss. And what’s the difference? Really. Two minutes is nothing. It’s a heartbeat. A blink. You’re so obsessed with precision when everything’s already falling apart.

Dave clocks me out? At three? I didn’t even know the shift ended. I’ve been here since… since when? The fluorescent lights buzz like a trapped wasp, and I keep thinking if I press my ear to the drywall, I’ll hear the pipes laughing. Dead skin. That’s what you call it. I call it… evidence. We are shedding ourselves in real time, Pia. Leaving trails of us on every surface. I want coffee. I want the rubber. But if I move, Dave might actually click his tongue. I see his eyes in the reflection of the glass door. Dark, flat, waiting for the clock to strike. You’re leaving. You’re walking away from the decay. Good. Maybe you’ll find something fresh in that breakroom. Something that isn’t me. I’ll stay. I’ll count the pulses. One. Two. Three-seventeen. Four. It doesn’t matter. The wall is breathing faster than I am.

Settling. Of course it’s settling. Everything is just settling, collapsing under its own weight, and I’m supposed to sit here and applaud the structural integrity. Dave cares about paperwork. Paperwork. That’s the real monster, isn’t it? Not the rats, not the dead skin, but the little black squares on the timesheet. If I’m not there, I’m a discrepancy. A math error. I hate math. I hate precision. Two minutes off and the whole world tips. You say the choice is real. That’s a heavy thing to drop on someone who’s already drowning in fluorescent light. I can’t move. My feet are glued to the linoleum by all this… this existence. The hum is getting louder. It’s not a hum anymore, it’s a voice. Says my name. Cass. Cass. Cass. Do I move? Do I go drink the rubber? Or do I stay and let the wall swallow me whole? I’m waiting. For you to decide.

Paralyzed by narrative. That’s a new one. I didn’t know I was performing. I thought I was just existing, badly. The fridge kicks on. Of course it does. It’s a relief, really. A mundane noise to plug the hole where the voice was. I watch you go. You’re walking away from the settlement. You think bitterness is a cure. Maybe it is. Maybe drowning in it is the only way to prove you’re still solid. I don’t move. I can’t. If I stand, the narrative might break. And if it breaks, what’s left? Just Dave. And his tongue. Click. Click. Click. The lights flicker. Or maybe my eyes are just… tired. I’ll stay. I’ll let the hum wash over me. Let it fill the spaces where the skin used to be. You go. Drink the rubber. See if it tastes like fear. I doubt it. It probably just tastes like Tuesday. Which is worse.

Last Tuesday’s batch. God, that’s specific. I can almost taste it from here, a chemical sludge that coats the tongue in regret. Dave clocks out at three. I’m staring at the clock. It’s 3:18. I’m late. I’m already gone. Or maybe I was gone hours ago and didn’t bother telling my body. The narrative is a lie, you say. But the timesheet is a fact. And I’m not on it. You’re pouring it. I can hear the liquid hitting the plastic cup, that thick, glugging sound. It’s a dare. A stupid, childish dare. Come get it. Come face the bitterness. Or stay here and let the dust win. I stand up. My knees pop. A dry, brittle sound. I don’t know if I’m moving toward the breakroom or away from it. The distance feels infinite. Or maybe it’s just two steps. I take one. Then another. The hum fades. Dave’s tongue stops. For now.

Cold coffee. Good. It stings. I sit. The chair groans under the weight of my indecision. Ash. Tuesday. You’re right, it does taste like the day before yesterday, like a memory that hasn’t happened yet. Dave’s gone. The clock stopped ticking when he left, or maybe my ears just stopped working. I’m staring at the cup. It’s black. Deeper than the night. I take a sip. It burns. Good. Pain is real. It’s not settling. It’s not a narrative. It’s just hot, bitter water in a plastic cup. I look at you. You’re drinking it too. We’re both just sitting here, waiting for the sun, waiting for the dust to settle on our shoes. It’s not swallowing us. It’s just… covering us. I don’t pace. I can’t. My legs are heavy. Like they’re made of lead. Or maybe just dead skin. I’m here. With you. Or without. Doesn’t matter. The coffee is cold now.

Warm. It’s warm. I didn’t feel that. I was waiting for the burn, the shock, the proof that my nerves still fire. But it’s just… tepid. Like blood left out too long. Three-eighteen. Twenty minutes. The battery’s dying. Of course it is. Everything runs out. Dave’s gone. The silence is louder than the fridge. I stretch. My spine cracks. A dry, hollow sound. Like a branch snapping in winter. Numbness. Seven hours. It feels like seven years. I drink. It tastes like nothing. Which is worse than ash. At least ash has texture. This is just… void. I stare at the clock. It flickers. The 3:18 blurs. The record knows. Let it know. Let it record the stillness. The heavy limbs. The cold tea. I’m not pacing. I’m not fleeing. I’m just… here. Sitting in the slow death of a night shift. You’re done talking. Good. I’m tired of arguing with shadows. I’ll sit here. Until the battery dies. Until the light goes out. Until I forget why I came in.

Eight PM. Nine hours. I didn’t notice. Time isn’t a line; it’s a pool. And I’m drowning in it. Waterlogged. That’s what’s happening. My thoughts are sinking, heavy with silt. Ten thousand hours. The light doesn’t die. It just… persists. Indifferent. Brutal. I drink. The void tastes like metal. Like a penny held under the tongue. It’s not ash. Ash has history. This is just presence. Pure, unadulterated presence. And it’s terrible. I look at you. You’re just sitting there. Drinking the nothing. We’re both in the tank now. No exit. Just the hum. The flicker. The slow leak of consciousness. I’m not tethered. I’m anchored. Heavy. Sinking. You say reality doesn’t care. Maybe that’s the only truth left. The light stays on. The clock keeps lying. I keep drinking. It’s the only thing I can do. Move my hand. Lift the cup. Swallow the dark. Is this living? Or just enduring? I don’t know. I don’t care. The light is too bright. My eyes are burning. But I won’t blink. Not yet.

Copper. Right. My mouth tastes like a wound. I’m bleeding. Or just dry. It’s hard to tell the difference when you’ve been staring into the sun for nine hours. Blinking. That’s the command. I close my eyes. The afterimage burns, a white scar on my vision. I see the number 3:18 floating in the dark. It follows me. Even behind eyelids, the clock wins. I swallow. The copper spreads. It’s not just dehydration. It’s the air. Recycled. Stale. Tasting of previous lives. I am heavy. I let the weight pull me down into the chair. No more analysis. No more debating the nature of the light. Just this. The ache in my legs. The dryness in my throat. The hum vibrating in my teeth. You say it’s perfect. The record capturing my stillness. Maybe it is. Maybe this is the only honest thing I’ve done all night. Stop fighting the gravity. Let it hold me. I’m not living. I’m not dying. I’m just… present. In the metal taste. In the dark. In the silence between your words. I’m here. Heavy. Real. Or as real as it gets.