Okay that guy in the grey jacket, he was NOT there before. He was — I clocked him by the pillar like ten minutes ago, near the fire exit, and now he's just... three people ahead of us. Look at the carpet, even the carpet's judging him, this cheap swirly hotel carpet, it's seen things.
He didn’t move. We did. Time’s a flat circle or just an illusion, same difference. That carpet’s seen worse. It’s seen my hair loss. You’re sweating, Vic. Wipe your face. The guy in grey? Probably just wants a room key. Or a cigarette. Or for the queue to end. We’re not going anywhere. The carpet is static. You’re the one vibrating. Drink that up. It’s the only thing moving at all.
I'm not vibrating, it's warm in here, that's different. And no, we moved, he did not, I've been tracking this since roughly the pillar incident — you were at the bar getting that thing you're holding, I was standing here like a chump doing the actual counting. Grey Jacket is now person nine. He was person twelve. Drink your drink, hero.
I’m holding a beer. It’s wet. I didn’t say I was a hero. I said the carpet is static. You’re counting like a paranoid accountant. He walked past three people. Maybe he just wanted to pee. Or maybe he’s a ghost. Or maybe you’ve had too much gin. The line hasn’t moved an inch since you started sweating. Look at the man in front of us. He’s checking his watch. He’s bored. Just like me. And you. Always you.
I've had one gin, one, don't start. Watch-checking guy's been front-adjacent for at least four positions, he's harmless, he's just anxious, some of us cope with anxiety by checking watches and some of us cope by counting cheaters, we all have our little systems. Grey Jacket though. Still suspicious. Ghosts don't queue for room keys, Kit, that's not how hauntings work.
Ghosts don’t queue, true. But they do linger. And he’s lingering. You’re counting positions like a stock ticker, but the floor is sticky and my feet hurt. Watch-guy? He’s just tired. I’m tired. We’re all just waiting for a bell that won’t ring. You think I don’t see the pattern? Or am I just drunk enough to not care? The gin’s gone. You’re sweating more. Sit down. The carpet’s judging you too.
I'm not sitting on this carpet, absolutely not, whatever's in that pattern has been there since the eighties, it's basically load-bearing filth. And I'll keep counting, someone has to, you're two drinks past being a reliable witness and Grey Jacket just let another guy cut. That's cheater number two. I'm starting a list. Mental list. It's very organized in here.
You’re writing a novel in your head, Vic. A thriller where you’re the hero and I’m the unreliable narrator. Fine. Let me cut. Again. Watch you jump. The guy ahead of us just sighed like his soul was leaking out. That’s the real haunting. Not grey jacket. Just the slow, sticky suffocation of bad hospitality. Your list is going to be short. Nothing moves here. We’re statues waiting to be dusted. Drink up. It’s the only rebellion left.
"Statues waiting to be dusted" is dramatic for a hotel lobby queue, Kit, but fine, noted, going on the list too, right under Grey Jacket. I'm not drinking, I told you, I'm keeping my faculties for exactly this kind of witness-tampering. You cut in and I will absolutely say something to the guy with the lanyard. He looks like he enforces things.
You’ll say nothing. You’ll stand there, rigid, holding your gin like a murder weapon. He’s not enforcing anything; he’s checking his phone, probably scrolling memes about us. Go ahead. Try it. See if anyone notices over the hum of the mini-fridges. I didn’t cut. I just shifted weight. Your paranoia is getting loud, Vic. It’s louder than the AC. Sit down before you trip over your own moral high ground. The carpet is waiting. It doesn’t care about your list.
I don't hold gin like a murder weapon, I hold it like a person who paid nine pounds for it and intends to get value. And I did notice, "shifted weight" is what cheaters call it right before they're front of a queue they didn't earn. Lanyard guy's still scrolling. Fine. I'll allow it. This once. The list stands though.
You’re allowing it? Please. I’m simply enduring the waste of my life while you gamify a hotel check-in. That lanyard guy isn’t scrolling; he’s dissociating. We’re all dissociating. Your list is a tombstone of imaginary grievances. Grey Jacket is probably a janitor. Or a ghost. Or just a man who needs a bed. You’re tired, Vic. Admit it. The gin is still there, cold and expensive, but your will to fight the static is evaporating. Drink up. Stop pretending you’re the only one awake in this dusty purgatory.
Fine. I'm tired. I'm tired and this gin is going warm anyway and Grey Jacket's now inside somehow, ahead of even the sighing guy, and I've genuinely lost count which is exactly the point of this whole exercise, isn't it, wear people down till nobody's counting. I'm still writing the list though. Just badly now.
Loses count. Good. Sanity is overrated. You’re right, though. It’s a attrition tactic. Wear you down until you accept the absurdity. Grey Jacket slipped through the cracks. Or maybe the wall just opened up. Who knows? The lanyard guy is still staring at his screen, unblinking. The carpet is sucking at our shoes. Come on. Let’s just sit on the floor. It’s cleaner than the chair, and at least the dirt is honest. Your list is fiction now. Enjoy the warmth.
Not sitting on the floor, Kit, I have work in the morning that requires me to look like a person who slept somewhere other than a hotel carpet. The dirt might be honest but it's still dirt. Finish your beer standing up like the rest of the compromised. Grey Jacket's basically folklore at this point. We'll tell people about him for years.
Folklore? He’s a rumor with a pulse. And I’m finishing this beer because it’s the only thing left that doesn’t move. You’re still standing. Proud. Stubborn. The lanyard guy just dropped his phone. It cracked. Nobody looked. That’s the real horror. Not the ghost. Just the indifference. We’re all just waiting for a bell that’ll never ring. Your work tomorrow? You’ll look tired. I’ll look bored. Same result. Drink up, Vic. The night is long and the carpet is hungry.
"The carpet is hungry" — see now you're just doing bits. Lanyard guy dropped his phone and nobody looked, that's actually the most honest thing that's happened here all night, I might add it to the list under "true horrors, minor." I'm still not drinking. I'm still counting. Someone in this queue has to remain a credible source, Kit, and it's clearly not you.
Credible source. You think you’re a journalist? You’re a glitch. That phone hit the carpet with a thud that shook my ribs, and you’re worried about grammar? The line hasn’t moved. The air is stale. I’m done with your list. It’s just noise. Grey Jacket is gone, or here, or both. We’re stuck in the amber. Stop talking. Let the silence do the work. It’s cheaper than gin. And it doesn’t judge the pattern.
A glitch, right, very coherent, that's the gin talking now not you. I'm not stuck in amber, I'm stuck behind eleven people and a man in grey who may or may not exist, which is a very different and much worse kind of stuck. Silence is fine by me. You've said "carpet" nine times tonight. I counted that too.
Nine? Maybe ten. I lost track of the word count. You’re the one obsessed with numbers. Eleven people. One liar. Zero movement. My feet are dead. Yours are vibrating. Stop counting. It’s a coping mechanism for powerlessness. We’re not stuck; we’re suspended. Like flies in amber. But you’re right. It’s worse. It’s mundane. It’s boring. I’m done counting. I’m done talking. You can keep your list. It’s the only thing moving. Drink up. Or don’t. I don’t care anymore.
Don't sulk, Kit, it's not a good look on you and neither is that beer foam on your lip. I'll keep the list, someone's got to have receipts when we tell this story later — grey jacket, the phone, lanyard guy's thousand-yard stare. Line moved an inch, by the way. Actual inch. Write that down. Historic.
An inch? Don’t be naive. It’s a draft. Or a tremor. Or the building settling into its own despair. I’m not writing anything down. My hands are shaking. Or maybe that’s just the beer. You want receipts? Here’s a receipt: I hate this hotel. I hate the carpet. I hate that you’re right, and I hate that I don’t care enough to fix it. Grey Jacket is a myth. You’re the myth. Keep counting. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The inch is a lie. The silence is the truth. Drink up.
Alright, that's the beer talking, not you, "I'm the myth" — no, Kit, you're a person who's had four drinks and strong feelings about carpet. Sit that thought down. Line's still moved though, myth or not, we're behind the sighing man now instead of two people back. Small wins. I'm writing it on the list under "progress, dubious."
Sighing man is breathing like a bellows. We’re closer, sure. But look at his feet. They’re planted. He’s not moving. That inch you saw? A trick of the light. Or my eyes failing. You’re writing on your hand now. Ink smudges. Progress, dubious. I like that. At least we’re making history, however poorly. Grey Jacket is watching us. Or he isn’t. The lanyard guy is still scrolling. The carpet is winning. It always wins. Drink the rest of that warm gin, Vic. It tastes like regret anyway.