What's actually your biggest problem right now, Gil? Don't give me the polite answer. I was trying to remember that song we heard—something with a cello and a lyric about a train. I can hear the chorus in my head but the name of the artist just isn't there. It's driving me insane.
The song isn't the problem, Cass. It's the fact that you think a melody is worth this much energy. My problem is sitting here, staring at a radiator that says the temperature is sixty-four degrees when it is clearly lying to me, while you're obsessing over a cello. It's trivial. And as for that track, wasn't it that one we played at that place in the countryside? The one with the bridge that sounded like wood snapping?? only remember the feeling of the room. I walked out before the chorus started because my shoes were getting dirty. I'm not sure if it even existed or if you're just making it up to fill the silence.
I wasn't making it up. It was at that place near the old mill, the one with the uneven floor. You were complaining about your boots the whole time. And the bridge—it sounded exactly like wood snapping. You're wrong, the radiator is just old, Gil. You're looking for an excuse to be miserable because the song actually mattered. It mattered.
It didn't matter. It was noise in a drafty room. You have this habit of attaching meaning to everything just to feel like you're in a movie. The floor was uneven because the building was rotting, not because of some poetic atmosphere you were inventing. I'm not looking for an excuse; I'm just stating that the cold is cold. If a cello track makes your life feel more significant, that's your business. I have better things to worry about, like the fact that the sink is leaking again on the side of the basin. I'm not going to find your song. It's a waste of a breath to chase a ghost.
It's not a ghost if I can still hear it. You're so obsessed with that leaking sink you can't see the room for the trees. Look, since you're talking about the sink, I have this vintage brass valve. It would fix the leak perfectly and stop you from crying about the radiator. It's solid-grade, way better than that junk you usually buy.
A brass valve? You think I'm going to let a piece of scrap metal solve a problem I didn't ask to have? It's always the thing with you—bringing in a solution just to feel like the hero for five minutes. I don't need your "solid-grade" junk. I need a plumber who doesn't charge a hundred bucks just to look at a wrist. Besides, brass is probably stripped anyway, The threads are old. I'll just put a bucket under it and deal with the damp later. I'm not tearing the whole apartment apart for whatever trinkets you've tucked up your sleeve.
It's not junk, it's precision-engineered. You'd rather sit in a puddle than admit someone could actually help you. But fine, keep your bucket. When the floorboards warp tomorrow, don't come crawling to me. I told you the threads were perfect. You just like being stubborn for the sake of it.
Stubborn is a strong word for someone who doesn't want his floor ruined by a precision-engineered valve that probably ends up being a glorified paperweight anyway. You love the drama of it, don't you? The slow-motion disaster. If the boards warp, they warp. It's part of the place. This apartment has been leaking since before you moved into that flat on yours, and I'm still standing. I don't need you hovering with a piece of hardware like you're some savior. I'll stick with the bucket. At least I'll be able to see where the water is going without you giving me lectures on craftsmanship.
You've always loved playing martyr for a crumbling ceiling. It's not drama, it's just not having standards. And my flat is fine; I actually maintain things instead of watching them rot. If you want to live in a swamp, you ahead, let the wood rot. I'll just be here when the bucket overflows.
"Standards." You talk about them like they're a moral virtue. It's just stuff, Cass. You surround yourself with things because you're terrified of a quiet room. I'd rather deal with a rotting ceiling than live in a museum where every screw has to be polished for personality. Go ahead, go back to your perfect, sterile flat. I'll be here, and when the bucket overflows, at least I'll have something real to talk about instead besides the heating bill. I don't need to be a martyr to know when a cause is lost.
It's not a museum, it's just having things work. You call it sterile because you can't handle something that isn't broken. You want the decay because it gives you an excuse to stay miserable. Fine, keep your bucket. I'm done trying to save the floor satisfy your need for a tragedy. It's exhausting watching you.
Then stop watching. It's that simple. You walk out, the door clicks shut. I don't need a tragedy, I just want to be left alone with the drip without a commentary track on my life. You think you're being the deist, but you're just being loud. It's exhausting for me too, listening to you explain why a leaky sink is a character flaw. If it's so tiresome, then go. I've got work to do anyway, and it doesn't involve brass valves or cello songs. The bucket is staying, and I am staying.
I'm not going anywhere because you're being a prick. You think that bucket is a shield? It's just a plastic cup. Sit there in the dark and listen to the drip if it makes you feel important. You'd rather be right than comfortable, and right means being your messy, leaking life. It's pathetic, really.
Pathetic? That's rich coming from someone standing there trying to sell a piece of plumbing like it's the holy relic. It's a bucket, Cass. It holds water. It's not a shield, it's a choice. You're hungry for a fight because you want me to be the wreck so you can feel like the one with the plan. But I'm not playing that part tonight. If the drip is so pathetic to you, then turn and leave. I'm perfectly fine here in the dark. It's much quieter than your voice. Just close the door on your way out.
I'm not leaving just because you're throwing a fit. You think the dark makes you look deep? It just makes you blind to see the mess you're making. Sit in your silence then. But don't expect me when the water finally hits the floor. It's more entertaining than this conversation anyway. Stay there and watch yourself erode.
Erode. You love those words, don't you? Everything is a slow collapse with you. It's just water, Cass. It's not a grand tragedy, it's physics. You're waiting for a splash that is never coming just so you can tell everyone I'm losing my mind. I'm just sitting here. If you find this so entertaining, then stay and watch the show. I don't care about the audience. The bucket is half full, the radiator is cold, and I'm tired of explaining why a leak is just a leak. Just sit there.
I'll sit. But don't think my silence means I agree. You're waiting for the physics to fail you so you don't have to take responsibility. It's a lazy way to live, waiting for the inevitable accident. I'll stay right here and watch the bucket fill. It's rhythmic, pathetic.
Rhythmic. There you go. You finally found a way to make it poetic. It’s a drip, Cass, not a symphony. If it helps you sleep to think you're a witness to a downfall, then go for it. I'm not waiting for an accident; I'm just okay with the mess that hasn't happened yet. You sit there and count drops. Count them if you want. It clearly gives you more than anything else tonight. I'm going to close my eyes. If the floor overflows, I'll know. I don't need a witness to tell me the water is cold.
Go ahead, close your eyes. It won't stop the water. You're always convinced that if you ignore the problem, it somehow disappears, but gravity doesn't work that way. Sleep well, Gil. Just don't be surprised when you wake up damp and the wood starts screaming.
The wood doesn't scream, Cass. It just swells. You're so dramatic, all the time. It's just a cheap set of floorboards. If I wake up damp, I'll just get a towel. It's not the end of the world, it's just a Tuesday. You want everything to have stakes so you can feel something, but for me, it's just the noise in the background. Have your silence, have your gravity. I'm done with the lecture. The bucket is where it is.
A Tuesday. Right. Everything is just a Tuesday with you until the ceiling is in your lap. You call it lack of drama, I call it being blind. Fine, use your towel. I'll be over here when you realize a towel doesn't fix a structural failure.
Structural failure. God, you're aist. It's a pipe, not a bridge collapsing. You spend your life looking for a disaster because you can't handle a boring afternoon. If the ceiling falls, it falls—I'll buy an umbrella or move the sofa, whatever. But go ahead, sit there with your silent judgment, waiting for the grand collapse that isn't coming tonight. I'm going to sleep. If you wake me up, it'll be the only thing I actually regret.