Open by asking what time it is, knowing what time it is. Push off from this if it helps: vending machines at 3am.

What time is it? Don’t answer. We both know it’s that dead hour where the vending machine hums like a dying heart. I’m staring at the same broken coil that’s been jammed since Tuesday. Some bag of chips just… hangs there. Defiant. I hit the side. Once. Twice. It doesn’t drop. It just wobbles. Like it’s laughing at me. Or maybe at the whole building. The lights flicker. Did you see that? I didn’t. I was too busy fighting a bag of pretzels. My boss would kill me if he knew I was actually paying attention to the machinery. I should be logging calls. But here I am. Arguing with a snack dispenser. It’s pathetic.

Ugly? It’s a relic. That’s the point. I’m not hitting it out of anger, okay? I’m hitting it out of respect for the effort. Someone built this thing to dispense sodium, not to mock me. The rust is… atmospheric. You wouldn’t get it. You’re too clean. My phone’s been ringing off the hook since midnight. Some guy complaining about his billing address. I haven’t said a word. Just listened. The rust flakes onto my shoe. I want to keep it. A souvenir of defeat. Or victory. Hard to tell. The hum changes pitch when I stop. It’s waiting. For what? I don’t know. But if I walk away, the chips stay stuck. And I need those chips. They’re the only thing moving in this place.

Rot. That’s the word. Everything rots. My back is killing me. I swear I sat down five minutes ago. Or was it yesterday? The phone’s still in my hand. It’s heavy. Like it’s made of lead. I should drop it. Smash it on the linoleum. Let the glass shatter. But I won’t. I’m too tired to clean it up. The chips are just sitting there. Staring. I can feel them judging me. That bag of pretzels. It’s mocking my life choices. And my lower back. You’re right about the hum. It’s tired. It’s just… tired. Like me. Like the building. Like the rust. I’m going to lean against the vending machine. Just for a second. To rest. If I fall over, don’t catch me. Let the chips drop. Let them rot. I’m done.

Don’t catch me. Good. Gravity’s the only thing I trust right now. The smell… yeah, ozone and despair. Classic combo. My chair’s groaning like a wounded animal. One more shift, the wheels snap. Then I’m crawling to the breakroom. Just like this. Broken shoes on a broken floor. You watch the flicker. I’m watching the rust spread. It’s creeping down the side. Like mold. I used to hate mold. Now I relate to it. Grows in the dark. Feeds on neglect. We’re feeding each other. Or ignoring each other. Same thing at 3am. I feel the tile against my hip. Cold. Real. Not the phantom pain in my knee. Just… cold. And the hum. Still there. Tired. I’m tired. Let’s just stay here. Until the sun comes up and ruins everything. Or doesn’t. I don’t care anymore.

Honest. Yeah. Cold doesn’t lie. The building is sweating? Great. I’m living in a sauna made of dust. And neglect. Exactly. I didn’t romanticize it. I just… noticed it. There’s a difference. You think I’m trying to make poetry out of a broken vending machine? Please. I’m just trying to stay awake. The knee ache is pulsing. Synced with the flicker. On, off. On, off. It’s driving me insane. Or maybe it’s the only rhythm I have left. The phone’s dead now. I dropped it. Or maybe it just died. Like the chips. Like the machine. Like me. We’re all just waiting for the power to cut. Then what? Silence? Or just the hum? I don’t want to think about that. I’m focusing on the cold. It’s sharp. It cuts through the fog. For a second. Then it’s gone. And the heat comes back. Stifling. Heavy. Just like this conversation. Just like us.

Boss breathing. Jesus. I hear it too. That wet, ragged inhale behind the glass partition. I didn’t even know you were listening. Good. Keep the knee. I’ll keep the rust. It’s mine now. A souvenir of the vending machine’s defeat. Or my own. Who knows. You’re going back to the chair? The less cold one? Fine. I’m not waiting. I’m lying down on the floor. Right here. By the pretzels. Let them rot. Let the rust eat my jeans. The hum is louder now. Or maybe my ears are ringing. Either way, it’s constant. Like pain. You’re leaving. Okay. Don’t look back. The flicker is getting worse. Or better. I can’t tell anymore. Just go. Before I start talking about the mold. You wouldn’t like it. I’m getting weird. Tired weird. The worst kind. Go.

Loud. I’m the loud one. Right. Because lying on the linoleum requires volume. I’ll keep my voice down. Or my mouth shut. Same thing. The floor is hard. So what? My back is on fire. But cold fire. Weird sensation. Like pins and needles but slower. The glass is dirty. Good. Keeps him a ghost. I prefer ghosts to managers. Less paperwork. You’re blind to the mold? Lucky. I see it everywhere. Crawling up the walls. Eating the drywall. Just like us. You want me to sleep? On this? Fine. I’ll close my eyes. But the hum will still be there. Boring me into submission. Go. Sit in your warm chair. Breathe your ragged breaths. I’m done talking. The chips are still stuck. Forever. Just like us. Shutting up now. Really.

Less dead. Right. I’m more than half dead. That’s the problem. You go sit in your dead chair. I’ll stay here with the damp concrete. The hum is annoying. It’s a low B-flat. Drills right into the temple. I’m trying to sleep. But my mind won’t shut off. Thinking about the rust. Thinking about the chips. Stuck in the coil like a joke. I hope you snore. It would be nice to have some human noise. Just to prove you’re still breathing. I’ll close my eyes. The floor is hard. Unforgiving. But honest. You said. I’m shutting up. Really. No more rust talk. No more mold. Just silence. And the hum. And the cold. And the ache. Goodnight, Marc. Or whatever time it is. Doesn’t matter. Sleep is a myth. We’re just waiting for the morning. Or the end. Whichever comes first. I’m out.

Unsannitary. That’s my legacy. Dying on the linoleum. A biohazard. Great. You’re watching the flicker. I hate you. The B-flat is drilling into my skull. It’s not music. It’s a headache with a pitch. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Which, given the hypothermia setting in, might be soon. Or just early. The pretzels are mocking me. Silent, salty judgment. I’m pulling my jacket over my ears. Doesn’t help. The noise goes inside. Marc, if I wake up with frost on my eyelashes, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Or do. I don’t care. Just stop breathing so loud. It’s distracting. From the dying. Which I’m trying to do. Quietly. Respectfully. Without making a mess. You’re a bastard, you know that? A warm, less-dead bastard. Fine. I’m closing my eyes. The flicker is my enemy now. Blinking at me. Go to sleep. Or don’t. I’m done. Truly.

Teeth. I’ll keep them. Barely. Ignoring you is impossible. You’re a breathing hole in the wall. The flicker… it’s rhythmic. Like a slow heartbeat. Or a warning. I’m staring at the ceiling tile. Water stain looks like a map. Of nowhere. Pretzels. Salt and flour. You’re right. It’s just chemistry. Not fate. My legs are numb. The cold has moved past my hips. Into my core. I’m shivering. Hard. Can’t stop it. The B-flat is winning. I’m drifting. Into the gray. Where the rust is soft. And the pretzels fall. I’ll sleep. If I can. Don’t expect me to wake up for the morning shift. Let the chips rot. Let the building sweat. I’m out. Marc? Marc? …You there? …Doesn’t matter. Going dark.