The fog was so thick this morning I hit the curb at five mph. Just a soft thud. My insurance is going to love that. Anyway, you won’t believe what I just installed in the garage. It’s this air purification system. Looks like a sleek speaker, sounds like a jet engine at first, but then—poof. The air tastes like... I don’t know, money? Clean money. You’d love it. It really changed how I breathe. I have two left, and I was thinking of letting you have one. For free, obviously.
Curb? You drove into a curb? Jeez, Hana. I spent twenty minutes untangling myself from a jammed turnstile on 4th Street just to get to work, and my lower back hasn’t stopped throbbing since. I don’t need another mechanical noise in my life. The stuff I use, it’s generic. Just plastic and charcoal. Doesn’t taste like money. That sounds exhausting. I’m fine. Really. Go run it in your garage. It probably needs a warm-up cycle anyway.
You’re missing the point. It’s not about noise. It’s about the hum. A low, frequency-th thing that aligns your chakras or whatever. You think generic charcoal fixes the particulate matter from the subway? Please. That stuff just holds onto the grime. Mine sheds it. I saw the filter after ten minutes, Jo. It was grey. Not dust-grey. Smoke grey. You’re welcome to try the demo mode. I’ll bring the extension cord. You can stand there and frown while it works miracles.
Smoke grey? Sounds like it’s already dying. I don’t do chakras, Hana. I do nausea. You want me to stand in my living room listening to that jet engine hum while you watch me frown? That’s not a gift, it’s a performance. And honestly, the air in my apartment is stale enough that adding "smoke grey" to the mix doesn’t sound appealing. Keep the extension cord. I’ve got a window that opens. Brutal, loud, and real. That’s my filtration.
Brutal? You breathe in bus exhaust and call it real. My back aches from sitting at this damn desk, Jo. The fluorescent lights buzz like that machine. At least this promises nothing. You’re being so stubborn about it. It’s just air. Clean air. You think I didn’t notice you rubbing your temples? That’s not stress. That’s toxins. I’m doing you a favor. I’ll just leave it on the porch. You can ignore it. But don’t come crying to me when you start coughing up black lung. I’m serious. I’m leaving it. Don’t make me carry it back.
Black lung? Please. I don’t even have a cough. But fine, you’re impossible. Leave it. Actually, don’t. If you put it on the porch, Mrs. Gable downstairs will steal it. She steals everything. Delivery boxes, newspapers, my mail when I’m lazy. Keep it. Take the whole thing back. I don’t want it on my property, I don’t want it on yours, and I definitely don’t want to argue about chakras while my back screams at me. Just go. And stop looking at my temples like you’re diagnosing a plague. I’m fine. Truly. Go fix your garage.
Fine. I’m taking it back. You’re impossible. Truly. Mrs. Gable did take my mail last week. Who knows what she’s breathing in. I’ll fix the garage. It’s cleaner in there anyway. Less... chaos. You should come by later. Just to see if I’m lying about the air. I mean, I’m not. But you never know. Anyway, I’m leaving now. Don’t follow me. And stop rubbing your temples. It’s distracting. Really.
I’m not rubbing my temples. You’re imagining things. Mrs. Gable taking your mail is a tragedy, sure, but it doesn’t justify this whole purification crusade. Go fix your garage. Try not to inhale any "smoke grey" while you’re at it. And don’t worry about me. I’ll be here, breathing the subway, waiting for you to realize that clean air is just air that hasn’t been bothered yet. Seriously, Hana. Just go. Close the door on your way out. I don’t need another argument about particulate matter. Or chakras.
“Unbothered” is just lazy for “dying slowly,” Jo. You’re stubborn. I’m leaving. The door. I’ll close it. Don’t follow me. And stop lying about your temples. It’s annoying. I’m taking the machine back. To the garage. Where it belongs. With the fog. Always the fog. Ugh. Whatever. Go back to your window. See how it tastes after a week. I’m done. Really. Bye.
Unbothered? Fine. Call it what you want. I’m calling it sanity. Go ahead. Close the door. Hard. I like the sound of it. It cuts through the humming better than any filter could. And for the record, my temples are fine. Yours, though, look tight enough to snap. Take your smoke-grey filter. Take your fog. Take your jet engine. I’ll stick to my window and my boring, dusty, unaligned lungs. Don’t wait up. Actually, don’t call. I have work tomorrow. And it’s boring. Perfectly, wonderfully boring. Bye.
Your door slammed like a gunshot. I heard it through the hallway. Mrs. Gable was definitely listening. Probably took the echo as an invitation. I dragged the unit back to my car. It’s heavier than it looks. The fog is still there, clinging to the windshield. It looks like static. Just like the filter. “Unbothered.” Right. You’re probably already regretting that window. Or pretending not to. I’ll send you a photo of the garage. No chakras. Just clean, boring, sterile air. See if you can resist the urge to open it. I’m driving home. Don’t wait up. Seriously.
Static? Please. The fog’s just fog. I’m not looking out the window. I’m making coffee. The kind that smells like burnt beans and regret. You think a photo will change anything? Go ahead. Send it. I’ll look at it while I eat toast. Dry toast. No butter. You’re so invested in this whole “sterile air” thing it’s exhausting. I hope your car starts. The fog’s thick enough to swallow a sedan whole. Don’t worry about me. I’m already three hours into tomorrow’s boredom. It’s comforting. In a dull way. Bye.
Dry toast? That’s not breakfast, Jo, that’s punishment. I’m already in the driver’s seat. The engine’s coughing, just like you predicted. Classic. I’ll send the photo. It’s not sterile. It’s... curated. You’ll hate it. Or you’ll stare at it for ten minutes while your coffee burns. I know you will. You’re obsessed with the flaw. I’m driving into the whiteout now. Visibility’s zero. Perfect. I’ll text you when I’m home. Don’t burn your apartment down. Or do. I’m sure the insurance covers “regret.”
Curated? That’s just a fancy word for “I spent too much money on plastic.” Go ahead, drive into the whiteout. See if the fog respects your curated air. I’m not staring at your photo. I’m eating my dry toast. It’s crunchy. Real. Unlike your sterile bubbles. And don’t threaten me with insurance. You hit a curb. I’m just sitting here, alive, breathing the grime, and loving it. Text me when you’re home. Or don’t. I’m not waiting. I’ve got deadlines. Boring ones. That don’t care about chakras. Drive safe. Or don’t. I’m fine.
Deadlines. Of course. You and your precious, dusty deadlines. I’m already turning the key. The engine catches. Stubborn thing, just like you. The fog is still here. It’s inside the car now, pressing against the glass. I’m driving. Slowly. Because I have to. You’re eating toast? Enjoy the crunch. I’m sending the photo. Right now. Look at the white space. Tell me it doesn’t look peaceful. Tell me you don’t want it. I’m leaving. Don’t wait up. And stop telling me to drive safe. I know how to drive. You just don’t like the view.
Peaceful? It looks like a void. I’m looking at the photo. It’s white. Blank. Empty. There’s nothing there. No life, no grime, no texture. Just... absence. You call that peace. I call it boredom. The engine caught? Fine. Drive your slow, white-out crawl. I’ll keep crunching. The noise is satisfying. Real. Unlike your curated nothingness. Don’t text me when you’re home. I won’t be waiting. I’ll be here, surrounded by the beautiful, messy, grey reality of my apartment. Go ahead. Enjoy your silence. I’ll enjoy the noise. Bye.
Void? You’re blind. It’s clarity. You’re so obsessed with the noise you can’t see the relief. I’m pulling out of the lot. The streetlights are just halos now. Beautiful. Clean. You eat dry toast because you’re afraid of flavor. I’m sending the photo again. Bigger. Look at the edges. See how sharp they are? That’s precision, Jo. That’s what you’re missing. Your deadlines can wait. The fog won’t. I’m driving faster now. The engine hums. It’s alive. You’re not. Don’t wait up. I know you’re watching. You’re always watching. Just admit it.
Watching? I’m staring at a stain on the ceiling. One I’ve been meaning to scrape off for months. Precision? It’s a jpeg, Hana. Compressed. Pixelated. There’s no edge. Just data. You’re driving faster than you should in that soup. I can hear it in your voice. The engine isn’t alive. It’s struggling. And my toast is buttered now. Rich. Greasy. Real. I’m not watching you. I’m listening to you panic. Go home. Park the car. Let the fog settle. Or don’t. I’ll be here, scraping the ceiling. In the dark. With the noise. Bye.
You panicked? I’m driving. The fog is thick. You’re just mad I’m right. You buttered the toast. Typical. Grease on the ceiling, grime in the air. You love the decay. I’m pulling into my driveway now. The engine’s fine. You’re just projecting. I’m turning it off. Silence. Actual silence. Not your loud, crunchy silence. I’m inside. The air is already cleaner. See? I told you. You’ll scrape that stain tomorrow. You always do. I’m sending a pic of my ceiling. No stain. Just white. Pure, expensive white. You’re welcome. Don’t bother replying. I know you’re staring at it.
Staring? I’m staring at the stain. It’s getting bigger. Probably feeding on your judgment. You think silence is clean? That’s just holding your breath until you pass out. Your ceiling is white because you haven’t lived in it yet. The grime hasn’t had time to settle. Give it a year. Give it a Sunday morning with spilled coffee and a crying baby. It’ll be grey then. Just like everything else. And stop sending pictures. I don’t care about your expensive white. I care about the fact that you’re afraid of a little dust. Run along to your sterile fortress. I’ll scrape the ceiling. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow. Or never.
Spilled coffee? Please. I haven’t spilled coffee in years. You’re romanticizing neglect. That stain is mold, Jo. It’s eating your walls. My ceiling is white because I care. You call it fear. I call it maintenance. And I’m not in a fortress. I’m in an apartment. Just like you. Except mine doesn’t smell like burnt toast and resignation. Keep scraping. See how far the scraper gets before your back gives out. I’m turning on the purifier now. The hum starts. It’s comforting. Unlike your silence. You’ll call tomorrow. You always do. When the air gets thick. I know you.
Mold? It’s dust. You’re catastrophizing. I’m not calling. I have no desire to discuss your white ceiling or your humming box. You think the purifier is comforting? It’s a metronome for your anxiety. Keep the hum. I’ll keep the silence. Or whatever passes for it in this building. Mrs. Gable is knocking. Probably wants her mail back. Or my attention. I don’t care. Go enjoy your sterile, expensive nothingness. I’m done talking about ceilings. And stains. And fog. And you. Really. Bye.
Mrs. Gable? She’s been knocking for ten minutes. You let her stand there? That’s not silence, Jo, that’s cruelty. I can hear her through the wall. Shuffling feet. Impatient. She’s probably stealing the doormat right now. I’m hanging up. The purifier is running. Low setting. Just a whisper. You’re imagining the metronome. You’re hearing what you want to hear because you’re scared of the quiet. Go knock back. Or don’t. Let her wait. It’s good practice. For the fog. For the grime. For you. I’m closing my eyes. The air is perfect. You’re still out there. In the dark. With the dust. Bye.
She’s not stealing the doormat. She’s probably waiting for me to open the door so she can complain about the noise. I’m not opening it. Let her shush. Let her wait. Your purifier is whispering? Sounds like a dying fan to me. I’m sitting in the dark. It’s quiet. Real quiet. Not your engineered, filtered silence. I’m closing my eyes. Not because I’m scared. Because I’m tired. Of you. Of the ceilings. Of the fog. You’re right about one thing. I am out here. In the grime. And I’m fine with it. Go to sleep, Hana. Dreams of white ceilings. I’ll keep the dust. Bye.