Some twat just cut. Assumed. Looked right through me. Rude. Anyway, that 3am vending machine near the laundromat. The one that eats coins? I swear it only dispenses warm Cokes now. Or maybe I’m just imagining the warmth to comfort myself. Either way, standing here in this moving glacier of humanity is doing nothing for my soul.
I remember the machine. You were drunk that night. It’s not warm. You’re just standing here too long. My feet hurt. The line hasn’t moved. Look at that guy in the grey coat. He’s checking his watch. He’s lying.
Drunk? I was merely inefficient. There’s a difference. Though you’re probably right about the feet. Standing still is a special kind of torture. And the grey coat? Yeah, he’s checking his watch like a man waiting for a bus that doesn’t exist. Classic panic. That guy in front of us, the one with the dog? The dog hasn’t blinked in ten minutes. I’m starting to think we’re not actually in a queue. Just being observed.
Dog blinked. Just now. Small twitch. You’re projecting. My boss emailed about the Q3 reports. Infinite. I hate that font. You’re imagining things. The air is stale. That’s all.
Q3 reports? I don’t have a boss, Tess. I have a landlord who stares through the drywall. But fine, infinite font. Helvetica’s soul-crushing enough without the promise of endless data. You’re right about the air, though. It smells like wet wool and regret. And if that dog blinked, it was probably a spasm. Stress. The queue’s draining the oxygen. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending I care about your quarterly projections while someone cheats ahead.
Landlord. Right. Drywall. I don’t care about the font. You’re loud. The dog is a mutt. It sleeps. My shoulders ache. This place is hollow. Stop looking at me. Just stand there. Be still. Or don’t. I’m done.
I’m not looking at you. I’m staring past your left shoulder at a crack in the ceiling that looks like a map of Florida. Fine. Be still. I’ll stand here. The mutt’s asleep, good. Less judging me. My shoulders are stiff from holding this indignity. And don’t say you’re done. We’re both stuck. The grey coat guy just sighed. That’s progress, or a sign he’s having a stroke. Hard to tell.
Florida map. Sure. His sigh was just air. People breathe. My lower back is killing me. I should have worn better shoes. Or not come at all. You’re complaining about stiff shoulders. Try standing in a line that won’t move. It’s a test. And we’re failing.
Lower back? Classic. I wear these cheap loafers for a reason. They’re practically barefoot. At least you have shoes. My feet are practically fused to the linoleum. And it’s not a test. It’s just bureaucracy with bad lighting. If it were a test, they’d tell us the subject. Failing is passive. This is just endurance. And I’m not complaining. I’m observing. The grey coat just shifted. He’s definitely lying about the time.
Loafers. Right. Fused. Good image. Bureaucracy. Yes. He shifted his weight. Not time. Just relief. The dog’s leg twitched. Again. I’m tired of watching you talk. Your voice is thin. It doesn’t fill the space. Let it go.
Thin? My voice is perfectly adequate. It’s the acoustics in this waiting room. Dead. Like the coffee they serve in the breakroom. And the dog? Yeah, probably dreaming about chasing its own tail. We’re all just waiting for something to happen. Anything. The grey coat guy just checked his phone. Again. He’s not lying about the time. He’s just bored. We’re all bored. You’re just louder about it.
Bored. Yes. The dog is asleep. Phone glow on his face. You’re talking too much. My foot fell asleep. Numb. Useless. The coffee is burnt. It’s always burnt. Stop analyzing. Just stand. Wait. It ends. Eventually.
Numb feet. Classic. I’ve got cramps in my arch from these cheap loafers. And the coffee’s burnt because they use the same pot all week. Cheap bastards. I’m not analyzing. I’m just observing the decay. Grey coat is scrolling. Dog’s snoring. You’re tapping your foot, Tess. It’s driving me mad. Stop it. If it ends, I want to be the one who gets out first. Not you.
I am not tapping. You are hallucinating. The numbness is getting to you. Cheap loafers are a choice. I will get out first. Not because I am better, but because I am quieter. The dog stopped snoring. Listen. Silence is loud here.
Hallucinating? Fine. I’ll close my eyes. The silence is heavy, yes. Heavy like the damp air. But loud? No. It’s just empty. Like the grey coat’s phone screen. No, wait. It’s on. He’s watching something. Probably cat videos. Predictable. You’re quiet because you’re exhausted. I’m quiet because I’m done with this nonsense. The queue hasn’t moved an inch. It’s a trap. A beautiful, silent trap.
Cat videos. Obviously. You’re projecting. Exhaustion makes you sensitive. The trap is real. I’m just standing. My ankle hurts. Stop talking. It’s not helping. The line is still there. We are still here. It’s fine.
Ankle hurts. Mine’s throbbing. Whatever. Cat videos were a guess. People are boring. The trap isn’t real. It’s just Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Who cares. The grey coat guy just put his phone away. He’s looking at us. Or past us. Does it matter? The dog’s awake now. Whining. Pathetic. I’m not talking. I’m breathing. In, out. Waiting for the trap to spring, or for me to trip. One of us will.
Dog’s whining. It’s annoying. Grey coat looks away. Good. Breathing is hard work. My ankle is throbbing now. Like a pulse. In, out. Doesn’t matter. We’re just meat waiting to be processed. Try not to trip. It would be embarrassing.
Meat. Sure. Processed. Like the coffee. The dog’s whining is worse now.尖锐. Grey coat is shifting again. He’s checking his shoes. Nervous tic. My ankle is throbbing too. A counter-rhythm to the whine. Embarrassing? Tripping would be a release. A physical jolt. Anything to break the static. You’re right. We’re just waiting. Waiting for the meat to move. Or the knife to fall. Whichever comes first.
尖? Loud is just loud. Grey coat’s shoes are dirty. Mine too. Tripping. Maybe. The dog is quiet now. Staring at the door. My ankle is gone. Numb. Better. You’re dramatic. It’s just a queue. Not a slaughter. Stop it.
Dramatic? I’m observant. You’re numb. There’s a difference. The dog’s staring at the door because it knows something we don’t. Or it smells a squirrel. Probably a squirrel. Grey coat’s shoes are scuffed. He’s been running. Or walking fast. Lying to himself. I’m not dramatic. I’m just tired of pretending this matters. Slaughter? Please. Slaughter has purpose. This is just… waiting. With bad coffee. And you’re right. It’s just a queue. A boring, endless, stupid queue. I hate it.
Squirrel. Fine. Grey coat is just tired. Shoes are scuffed. My ankle is dead weight. I hate it too. It’s stupid. It’s boring. It’s nothing. Just stand there. Don’t trip. Don’t speak. The dog stops staring. The door stays shut.
Dead weight. Good. Less to carry. Grey coat is slumping now. The scam’s up. He’s just waiting for us to leave. Dog’s stopped staring. Probably smelled the burnt coffee from the back. We’re all just components in a machine that runs on boredom. My ankle is fine. I was never in pain. Just standing. Waiting. The door isn’t going to open. It never does.
Slumping. Yes. He gave up. My ankle feels heavy. The coffee smell is real. I hate that smell. Boring. It’s all boring. Don’t lie about your ankle. I saw you wince. The door is locked. Or just open. Doesn’t matter. We’re still here.
I didn’t wince. I adjusted my weight. You’re seeing things. My ankle is fine. The coffee smell is a lie anyway. It’s just dust. And old wool. The door’s locked. Obviously. If it opened, we’d have to move. And moving is the enemy. Grey coat is out. Actually left. Cut the line. Cheater. I noted it. He’ll regret it. Or he won’t. Doesn’t matter. We’re still here. Waiting for the next twat to push in.
Cheater. Fine. He’s gone. The space feels bigger. My ankle is still numb. Dust is fine. Wool is scratchy. Don’t look at the door. Just stand. The next person might be worse. I’m tired. Stop talking.
Worse? Please. The grey coat was a disaster. At least he had shoes. I’m staring at the ceiling now. The crack looks like a river delta. Tess, you’re quiet. Good. The dust settles on my shoulders. Scratchy. Like the wool. Ankle’s numb? Mine’s gone too. Or maybe it’s just gone entirely. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. We’re just statues here. Waiting for the paint to dry. Or the ice to melt. Whichever comes first.
River delta. Sure. Statues. Good. Paint is wet. Ice is cold. My shoulder hurts. The scratch is loud. Don’t move. If you move, the spell breaks. And I’m tired of watching you talk. Just stand. Be stone.
Statues don’t talk. But I’m leaking anyway. Shoulder hurts? Mine’s frozen. Perfect. Paint’s wet. Ice is cold. The dog’s gone. Vanished. Did it ever exist? Probably a hallucination. Like your ankle. Or my pain. We’re just shapes in the dust. Grey coat’s trace is fading. He won. We’re still here. Stone. Silent. Waiting for the paint to dry. Or the world to end. Whichever is less boring.
Dog’s gone. Fine. Less noise. Hallucination. Maybe. Pain is real though. My shoulder is tight. Stone is hard. Paint won’t dry. Ice melts. Wait. Don’t move. The dust is settling. It’s quiet. Good. Keep quiet.
Quiet. Yes. Stone is hard. Shoulder tight. My throat is dry. Dust settling. Good. Ice melts. Wait. Don’t move. The paint won’t dry. Grey coat’s gone. We’re still here. Tess, you’re quiet. Good. I’m quiet too. Just shapes in the dust. Waiting for the world to end. Or the queue to move. Whichever comes first. I’m tired. So tired.
Tired. Me too. The ice is gone. Just water. Puddle. My ankle tingles. Blood coming back. It burns. Don’t look at it. Just stand. Shapes. Dust. Wait. It ends. Or it doesn’t. I don’t care anymore.
Blood returning. That’s the worst part. Like needles. My toes are screaming. Puddle? I didn’t see any ice. Just sweat. And dust. The dog is definitely gone. Or never there. Grey coat’s cheating note is in my head. I’m writing it down. Next time, I’m taking the stairs. If there are any. We’re shapes. Dust. Waiting. Or not. Doesn’t matter. Just stand. Let it burn.
Needles. Good. Means you’re alive. Sweat is gross. I’m not writing notes. Just stand. Let it burn. It’s the only thing happening. The air is stale. My throat is dry. Stop talking.
Alive. Sure. That’s one way to spin it. Sweat is gross. You’re right. I’m done. Throat dry. Like sandpaper. The air is stale. Heavy. We’re just waiting for the burn to stop. Or for the numbness to return. Either way. Silence is better. Less noise. Less noise. Just shapes. Dust. Waiting.
Sandpaper. Good metaphor. Dry throat. Dehydration. The burn will pass. Numbness is boring. Shapes. Dust. Yes. Silence. Finally. Don’t break it. I’m listening to the hum. The light. It flickers. Stop thinking. Just breathe.