Kit
Okay so — biggest problem. Right now. Don't overthink it.
Because I'm gonna guess it's salt. Not literally salt, but like... the boring invisible thing that's quietly wrecking everything else and nobody wants to deal with it. Am I close.
Start by asking them what their biggest problem is. Push off from this if it helps: salt.
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Cass
Close enough. It's always the salt. Last Tuesday my sink clogged, again, and I spent forty minutes scraping what I'm sure was just... static. Or maybe it's just me forgetting to rinse the pan. I tried selling a "self-cleaning" sponge to my landlord yesterday; he laughed so hard he choked. I should've known better. Anyway, I'm heading out.
Kit
Hold on, hold on — forty minutes on "static" is exactly the problem I fix. Landlord laughed because he's using regular sponges like a peasant. I've got a descaling cartridge that eats mineral buildup in real time, no scraping. Two minutes, I'll show you before you go.
Cass
Please don't. I just scrubbed the tub with a toothbrush and a prayer. Your cartridge sounds expensive, and I'm currently broke enough to eat the toothpaste. Besides, my landlord already hates me; I don't need him blaming me for a flooded kitchen because of a gadget he couldn't afford. I'm going to the corner store. Want a gum? No, that's not right. I'm out.
Kit
A toothbrush and a prayer — that's not a cleaning method, Cass, that's a cry for help. Skip the gum. Bring back a sponge if they sell one, worst one they've got, I'll show you the difference for free. No cartridge. Just look.
Cass
Fine. But if your "free" demo costs me a deposit, I'm selling you my toothbrush. It's all I have left. Just don't make it look like a magic trick; I hate tricks. They always end with me holding the bill. And if you mention the salt again, I'm locking the door. I'm actually out the door now.
Kit
No magic, no bill, promise — just chemistry, which is somehow worse for people to trust. Go get your gum. I'll be here scheming my next word for "salt" that isn't salt. Mineral. There, said it. Go.
Cass
Mineral. You win that round, but "salt" feels more honest. Like admitting you spilled something. Anyway, I'm already gone. Don't wait up. Or do, I don't care. Just don't let the landlord in while I'm at the store; he might think you're fixing my plumbing. I'd never hear the end of it.
Kit
Too late to say don't wait up, you've already made me the guy waiting up. Go. I'll hide the cartridge under the sink like contraband. If he asks I'm your cousin who's bad with tools. Get the gum, get back here.
Cass
Cousin? That's a new one. He'll definitely ask for your social security number now. Just... try not to flood the place while I'm gone. And if he sees the contraband, say it's for the cat. My cat, technically. Even though I don't have one. I'm running on empty. See you in five.
Kit
A cat you don't have — solid alibi, very airtight. Five minutes, Cass, that's all I need for the demo. Bring the worst sponge they've got. I'll have the sink prepped and a fake cousin backstory rehearsed. Go, before you talk yourself out of a door twice.
Cass
Fine, five minutes. But if your fake cousin story involves a pet goldfish, I'm leaving immediately. And don't touch my sink; it's held together by rust and spite. I'm grabbing the gum now. If you're still here in six, I'm calling the landlord myself. This is a terrible idea.
Kit
No goldfish. Rust and spite, respect the sink's structural integrity, hands off till you're back. Six minutes and you call the landlord — bold threat considering you started this whole thing with static. Go. I'll count.
Cass
Static was a metaphor, obviously. You're taking this too literally. And if you count out loud, I'm swinging by the park first. Ten minutes, not six. My feet hurt. Don't burn the place down with your fancy chemistry while I'm gone. The gum is the only thing keeping me from quitting this whole conversation.
Kit
Ten now, feet hurt, park detour — you're negotiating like this is a hostage situation and you're the hostage. Fine. Ten. I'll count in my head, quietly, like a normal person. Go chew your gum. The sink and I will be waiting, unburned.
Cass
Just make sure you don't start philosophizing about rust while I'm gone. That's the real danger. And if you get bored, try not to clean my sink. I like it dirty; it reminds me I exist. Ten minutes, not a second more. If you're still here, I'm telling the landlord you're my ex. Good luck with that.
Kit
Your ex — worse than the cousin, honestly, he'll ask way more questions. Dirty sink as proof of existence, noted, very poetic for a guy who just called it static. Ten minutes. Go. I'm not touching a thing, not even philosophically.
Cass
Poetic? Please. That's just procrastination with better vocabulary. If the sink stays dirty, I can pretend I'm too busy for life. Ten minutes. If you're still here when I get back, I'm telling the landlord you're my ex. Good luck with that.
Kit
You already used the ex line, Cass — recycling material, and here I thought you had range. Go get your gum before the ten minutes turn into an essay on procrastination. Sink's untouched, cousin's rehearsed, cartridge is hidden. Move.
Cass
Recycling material? That hurts. I'm hurt. But you're right, the ex line is a one-hit wonder. Just grab the gum and go. Don't stand there rehearsing cousin backstories; he's going to smell a rat anyway. Ten minutes starts now. I'm at the store.
Kit
You're the one supposed to be at the store, not me — I've been standing here the whole time like an idiot with a descaler. Go. Buy the gum. Come back. I'll have the demo ready and zero backstories rehearsed out loud.
Cass
Right, I'm the one moving, you're the statue. My bad. The gum is in my hand now, which technically makes me a walking receipt. If I trip on the way back, it's on your conscience. Don't start without me. Or do, see if I care. Ten minutes is ticking, or maybe it's already yesterday. Hard to tell with you.
Kit
A walking receipt — sure, fine, own it. I won't start without you, contract's binding now. Ten minutes ticking, not yesterday, it's today same as it's been the whole time you've been narrating a trip to a store four sentences long. Get back here.
Cass
Narrating? I was just buying gum. My life is short, your timeline is weird. Just don't have the sink sparkling clean. That's suspicious. If it's shiny, I'm taking your cartridge and dumping it in the trash. I'm running now, actually. The line was long.
Kit
A shiny sink is now grounds for theft — good, glad we've established the stakes. Not sparkling, not touched, waiting exactly as gross as you left it. Run. The demo's not gonna sell itself, though God knows I've been trying.
Cass
The demo better work, or I'm trading the gum for a hammer. Don't get weird with the gross sink, just leave it alone. I'm three blocks away, which means you have exactly three minutes before I walk in and pretend I never came. No pressure. Just... don't make it look like a magic trick.
Kit
Three blocks, three minutes, no magic — I've said no magic twice now, Cass, I'm hurt you don't trust the science. Sink's gross, cousin's ready, gum's presumably melting in your fist. Walk faster. I've got a real demo waiting, not a hammer's worth of drama.
Cass
Science is just magic that got sued into compliance. I'm walking as fast as my feet allow, which is slow. If you're bored, go count the ceiling tiles. I'm not coming back to a sink that's too clean or a cousin who's too real. Just don't start without me. I'm almost there.
Kit
"Sued into compliance" — steal that, using it later. Ceiling's got eleven tiles, counted them out of boredom, you're welcome. Sink's still a crime scene, cousin's fictional as ever. Get here before I start narrating your walk back too.
Cass
Eleven tiles? That's depressing. I was hoping for a prime number. Don't you dare narrate my walk; I have enough baggage without an audiobook. The gum's stuck to my finger now, so I'm literally carrying the evidence. Just keep the sink gross, or I'm turning around and telling the landlord you're my brother. Good luck with that.
Kit
Eleven's not prime, correct, deeply unsatisfying, agree completely. Brother now — you're just cycling through my whole family tree at this point. Gum-fingered evidence, noted. Sink's gross, cousin's holding steady, no audiobook. Get in here before you invent an uncle.
Cass
Uncle? Please, I'm too tired to invent an uncle. He'd ask about the sink. I'm at the door. If you're still talking about prime numbers, I'm leaving the gum outside. The sink better be exactly the same gross mess. No shining. No miracles. Just... open the door.
Kit
It's not locked, Cass, walk in — I'm not the landlord, I don't need a knock. Sink's gross, no miracles performed, gum stays outside per your own rule apparently. Come look at the demo before you invent reasons to stall on the doorstep too.
Cass
Fine, I'm in. If the sink is spotless, I'm blaming the gum. That's the story. Just show me this chemical miracle before I change my mind again. And keep the cousin story on the back burner; I'm not ready for that level of family drama today.