Twenty minutes, minimum. Or an hour. I’d bet on the hour. It’s that same drone-y track, the one with the guy humming? Yellow? No, something darker. Bass-heavy. The queue’s moving at the speed of a glacier, honestly. You got here before me, by the way. I saw you check your phone like you were trying to summon a rescue team. Someone ahead of us is cheating, definitely. Saw them swap in a friend.
Cheating? Please. People bend rules because the system’s designed to break them. I remember when you just waited. Now it’s all digital bypass and subtle shoving. My back’s killing me. That bass line’s drilling into my temples. I swear, the service was better when we had to stand in the rain. Now we stand in climate-controlled purgatory with headphones. Same misery, different playlist. You look too pleased with yourself, Ana. It’s irritating.
My back’s been killing me since Tuesday, so don’t flatter yourself with the smugness act. I’m just... resigned. The bass line is awful. Stops when the barista calls a name? No. Starts again. Right. Behind me, the guy with the grey hoodie is definitely not holding a number. He’s just leaning. I saw him text someone to save a spot. You’re right about the rain, though. At least rain makes you feel alive. This? This is just waiting to die in AC.
You’re right, it is stupid. But don’t lecture me on misery. I had three meetings this morning. Three. Where my boss talked over his own voice like he was editing a podcast. I just want coffee. Not the good stuff. Just the fuel. That hoodie guy? He’s probably a sous-chef taking a smoke break pretending to queue. We’re both fools. I used to hate waiting. Now I hate standing. My knees pop when I shift. You know? The AC’s blowing right on my neck. Shut up.
Knees popping. Nice. I spent the morning watching paint dry on a wall that’s been dry for years. Boring, yes. But at least the wall doesn’t argue back. That bass is still there. I think it’s a loop. Or a mistake. You want the bad coffee? Fine. But don’t complain when it tastes like burnt tires. And shut up about the AC. It’s the only thing keeping the sweat from dripping onto my shoes. Which, by the way, are getting wet. From panic. Not leaky shoes. Panic.
Panic? You? Please. You’re vibrating with that terrible week energy. I’m grounded. Anchored. My knees pop, sure, but my mind is clear. That bass isn’t a mistake. It’s psychological warfare. They want us pliable. Burnt tires is an understatement; it tastes like regret and expired milk. I remember when coffee was just coffee. Now it’s a ritual of suffering. Your shoes are fine. Your face is the problem. Stop fidgeting. You’re making the guy in the grey hoodie nervous. Or maybe he’s just judging your poor life choices. Again.
My face isn’t the problem, Vic. You’re just tense. Look at you, vibrating. Meanwhile, I’m practically statue-still. Grey hoodie’s gone. Probably fled. Or finally got served. Either way, we’re still here. You said you wanted clarity? This is it. Standing in purgatory, judging strangers, waiting for sludge. You think I’m fidgeting? I’m breathing. Something you’ve forgotten. My shoes are dry because I don’t panic. You do. That’s why you’re sweating through your shirt. Admit it.
I’m not sweating. It’s the AC. Damp. Cold. Dripping. Your shoes are dry because you haven’t moved. I have. Every five minutes. Shifting weight. My left sock is probably a swamp. And I’m breathing just fine. You’re the one holding your breath like you’re defusing a bomb. Grey hoodie’s gone. Good. Less judgment. More air. But you’re still here. Still waiting. For the sludge. The burnt tires. The cheap comfort. You love this. You’re thriving in the misery. I’m just observing. Like a scientist. Or a ghost.
I’m not holding my breath, Vic. You’re imagining things. My sock’s fine. Yours is a swamp. Lucky you. I don’t love this. I hate it. But I’m not observing. I’m participating. In the slowly dying of light. Or coffee. Whatever comes first. The bass cut out. Did you hear that? Silence is worse. At least the noise gave us something to blame. Now it’s just us. And the line. Which hasn’t moved. You’re a ghost? Good. Ghosts don’t need coffee.
Ghosts don’t need coffee, true. But they don’t get judged by strangers either. You’re right about the silence. It’s worse. Like the whole place held its breath and forgot to exhale. I can hear my own heartbeat now. Thump. Thump. Annoying. You think I’m observing? I’m just tired. My shift started at five. I haven’t slept since Tuesday. Maybe Wednesday. Hard to tell. The light is dimming. Or my eyes are. Doesn’t matter. We’re still here. Waiting. For the next track. Or the end.
Tuesday? You’re delirious. You look like a zombie who forgot to die. My foot’s asleep. Numb to the bone. I can’t feel my toes. Is that better? Or worse? The silence is heavy. I think the guy behind us just sighed. Loudly. Like he’s done with everything. The line hasn’t moved a millimeter. I’m counting cracks in the floor. Three of them. One’s shaped like a bad decision. You want the sludge? Fine. But don’t blame me when it tastes like Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Whichever one you lost.
Tuesday. Right. My fault. I lost track. The fatigue’s getting to me. Numb toes? Good. Less sensation to process. I’m trying to become part of the floor. That crack looks like a scream. Or a signature. The sigh behind us? Probably just air escaping a balloon. Or a soul. Hard to tell when you’re this tired. I don’t want the sludge anymore. I want a nap. A deep, dark nap where the bass doesn’t exist. You’re counting cracks. I’m counting regrets. We’re evenly matched. Keep counting. Maybe if you find the right one, we get served. Or vanish.
Regrets? Please. I’ve got a spreadsheet of them. Back home. Unsorted. The floor’s cold. Your feet are turning blue. I saw the manager wave at someone inside. Just a flick of the wrist. We’re ghosts anyway. No one’s looking. You’re fading. Look at you. Blinking slow. I’m not counting cracks anymore. I’m counting your eyelids. Three blinks. Then four. You’re losing. The bass came back. Low. Muddy. Like a heartbeat. Or a drum. Hard to tell. Keep standing, Vic. Or fall. I won’t catch you.
Blue feet? That’s circulation. Not fading. You’re obsessed with my decline. It’s rude. The bass is returning. It’s mocking us. A heartbeat, you say? More like a countdown. I’ve lost count of how many hours. Or days. My vision blurs at the edges. Is that fatigue or just the AC drying out my corneas? You think you’re winning by counting my blinks. I’m winning by not caring. Let me fall. Let the floor take me. At least it’s steady. Your spreadsheet of regrets sounds exhausting. I prefer my memories unsorted. Messy. Real. You’re holding on too tight, Ana. Relax. Or don’t. I’m already gone.
Circulation? You’re turning blue, Vic. I’m not obsessed. I’m bored. The bass is loud. Annoyingly loud. My spreadsheet is sorted. Alphabetically. By shame level. Messy memories? Sounds like hoarding. You want to fall? Go ahead. I’ll step over you. The floor’s cleaner than your excuses. Three blinks. Four. You’re drooling. Or dreaming. Doesn’t matter. The queue’s still stuck. I’m not relaxing. I’m surviving. And you’re failing. Quietly.
Drooling? That’s panic sweat. You’re projecting. Alphabetical shame? God, you’re clinical. I like chaos. It’s honest. The bass is drilling into my skull now. Or maybe my skull is dissolving. Blue feet are just cold. You’re cold, Ana. You’re shivering. I can hear your teeth chattering. Quiet failure? I’m meditating. You’re just standing there, judging my collapse. Step over me. Go ahead. See if the manager cares. He’s probably ignoring us too. We’re invisible. Ghosts with numb toes. Keep counting. I’m already asleep.