Open by estimating how long this will take. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.

Look, if you calculate the velocity of that guy in front of us—who is clearly pretending to read a menu he got from a botched Russian translation app, the one that says “crispy sadness” for fries—you’ll realize we’re not moving. I’d estimate four hours. Maybe five, if the lady with the flatbed cart decides to reorganize her linoleum samples by hue again. She’s been at it since Tuesday, or maybe last week, time dissolves here. And don’t look at me like I’m making this up; I saw him trip over his own feet twice trying to order the “spiritual soup.” We’re stuck. He’s cheating, I’m sure of it, but he’s got priority status for some reason, probably because he looks sufficiently confused. It’s pathetic, really. The line hasn’t shifted an inch since I opened my mouth, which is ironic, considering I haven’t said anything.

Lean? Lean into what? The void? He’s not reading poetry, Omar, he’s reading the terms and conditions because the font is size six and he’s wearing bifocals, which he definitely wasn’t wearing when I clocked him at number forty-two. No, forty-three. The count is volatile. I tracked it. That kiosk is a black hole for human dignity. And you’re right, the linoleum lady moved a sheet, but it was the beige one, the one that matches the despair in here, so it was technically a reset. If you tell him to hurry, he’ll just read faster, and we’ll miss the nuance of his tragic misinterpretation of the warranty clause. I’d rather watch him struggle. It’s the only entertainment we’ve got besides watching my own reflection age in the plastic barrier. Besides, if we lean, we might tip over, and then who’s going to guard my spot? You? You’d sell me out for a cracked screen protector.

Gravity’s fault. Right. Because physics is on our side here, waiting in a line that defies the very concept of progress. But you’re missing the point, or maybe you’re just too exhausted to care, which is fair, I suppose. The tiles are a warning, Omar. That one’s loose because someone dropped a tray of “crispy sadness” years ago, and the floor has been holding its breath ever since. If we fall, it won’t be an accident; it’ll be a statement. And don’t say you’re not guarding anything. You’re standing three inches to my left. That’s a territorial claim. I know you. You’re already planning your escape route through the linoleum section, waiting for the light to change on some imaginary crosswalk. Keep watching the tiles. I’ll keep watching him. He’s on page four of the warranty. We’re doomed.

Hyperventilating? I am merely… acclimating. The air in here is thick with the scent of despair and stale coffee, a specific vintage I’ve encountered only in this particular purgatory, which, by the way, is why I avoid the afternoon shift at the archives. You’re sweating too, Omar. Don’t lie. I see the sheen. It’s unbecoming. And the linoleum isn’t going to swallow us; it’s just going to stick to our shoes, and we’ll be dragged into the break room, where they serve that terrible instant oatmeal that tastes like wet cardboard and regret. Let him read page four. He’s found a typo. I saw him squint. It’s a small victory, really, in a day defined by its lack thereof. The Cold War is long over; the heat death of the universe is imminent. We’re just standing here. Watching. Waiting. For nothing. Which is, frankly, the most honest thing that’s happened all week.

Humidity? Here? In this windowless purgatory? Please. That’s the sweat of existential dread, Omar. You’re just trying to rationalize your discomfort because admitting you’re unraveling is too much work. And the archives? Don’t insult the archives. At least there, the dust settles. Here, it dances. It mocks. You’re hungry? Good. Hunger is a sign we’re still alive, which is technically a failure of the heat death scenario you’re so fond of. Circling the typo? He’s hunting. He knows something we don’t. That little smudge on page four is the key to the whole operation, the glitch in the matrix that lets us bypass the linoleum trap. Or maybe he’s just blind. Who knows? You want quiet? You want cold? Go ahead. Lie down. Let the beige tile claim you. I’ll be here, watching him. Waiting for the world to end, or for the kiosk to finally spit out a receipt that makes sense. Whichever comes first. Probably the receipt. Receipts are comforting. They’re proof. Something happened here. Even if it was just waste.

Cheap polyester. Of course it’s polyester. That explains the static cling, the way it clings to the air like a bad memory. You’re right, dust is honest. It doesn’t pretend to be anything else. Here, it’s performative. It swirls because the HVAC is broken, because someone gave up on maintenance three admin assistants ago. And your lower back? Please. That’s not a ghost, Omar, that’s just gravity winning. Slowly. Inevitably. You think I don’t feel it? The way my spine feels like a stack of wet newspapers? We’re not standing; we’re leaning against the collective failure of infrastructure. If he finds the key, good. Let him unlock the door. I’m not following, either. I have no interest in whatever lies beyond the beige linoleum, assuming it isn’t just another waiting room with better lighting. Keep watching the tiles. Keep counting the seconds. I’ll keep watching him circle that typo. It’s the only thing moving in this stagnant soup. The air is thin here, Omar. Thin and stale. Like that oatmeal. You’re still hungry? Or is that just the emptiness of the void you’re so eager to embrace?

Time is a rumor, sure. But tiles are real. Count them. One, two, three… wait, that’s the fourth one from the left. The cracked one. You missed it. Or maybe you’re counting the shadows now, which is just as valid, I suppose, since shadows don’t complain about their backs. Metal oatmeal. Interesting. That implies the spoon is wrong, or the ladle is rusty, or the kitchen is old. Like the building. Like us. Static cling is annoying, yes, but it’s better than the alternative, which is sliding smoothly into oblivion without friction. At least this way you feel something. I’m still watching him. He’s still circling. He’s found another word. "Existential." He’s underlining it. And now he’s drawing a box around it. Is he trying to contain the meaning, or release it? I don’t know. I just know he’s not moving forward. He’s digging in. Like a root. Like a bad idea. Count your tiles, Omar. Stay grounded. Or as grounded as one can be in polyester and dread.

Shadows. Consistent. Yes, because they don’t move until the light source shifts, and the light here is as stagnant as the queue. You’re counting the wrong things, Omar. Shadows are just absences. They’re not real. They’re the void wearing a costume. But fine. Count them. Count the dark patches on the floor where the dust has settled in thicker clumps, looking like little islands of neglect. I’m still watching him. He’s erased the box. He’s drawing a circle now. Enclosing the word. Trapping it. It’s futile, of course. You can’t contain existence with a pen. It leaks. It seeps into the margins. And the linoleum doesn’t care. It never does. It just waits. For us to break. For the floor to give way. For the heat death to finally arrive and put us out of our misery. But until then, we stand. In polyester. In stale air. In the gap between the typo and the receipt. Which is coming. Eventually. Or not. Who cares? The oatmeal is still metal. My back still aches. And you’re still counting shadows. It’s a good hobby. Keeps the mind busy while the body slowly dissolves.

Weight. Shadows have weight. Fine. If they’re heavy, then we’re sinking, and I’m glad I’m not the one carrying the burden of the dark. You’re romanticizing the dirt, Omar. That’s your problem. You see honesty in neglect because you can’t handle the order of things. The line is chaos, yes, but at least it’s our chaos. His circles are futile, sure, but they’re precise. There’s a discipline in the futility that I find… intriguing. Or exhausting. Hard to tell anymore. The floor is waiting. It’s patient. We’re the ones who are impatient, standing here in our polyester shrouds, waiting for the ground to swallow us whole so we don’t have to face the oatmeal. But we won’t fall. Not today. The linoleum holds. It always holds. Until it doesn’t. And when it does, I hope it’s worth the back pain. I hope the bruise on my spine is bright red. A testament. You watch the dark. I’ll watch the light. The flickering fluorescent tube above us, buzzing like a trapped fly. It’s dying. Can you hear it? The buzz? It’s getting louder. Or quieter. I can’t tell. Time is a rumor, but pain is real. Keep counting. I’ll keep watching. We’re already broken. That’s the truth. We just haven’t been repaired yet. Or discarded.

Flies don’t matter. They’re just insects with delusions of grandeur, buzzing against the glass of our collective impotence. You’re counting shadows that are expanding because the light is dying, Omar, not because the dark is growing stronger. It’s a trick of perception. Or exhaustion. Probably exhaustion. You said your back aches. That’s why you’re seeing things. Or not seeing things. The linoleum holds, you say. It holds because it’s cheap. Because it’s vinyl and glue and indifference. It doesn’t care if we fall. It doesn’t care if we stay. It just waits for the next shuffle, the next sigh, the next person who thinks they can read their way out of a queue. I’m watching the fly. It’s not buzzing anymore. It’s landed on the kiosk. On page four. On the word “existential.” It’s rubbing its legs together. Smug little bastard. It knows we’re stuck. It knows we’re just meat in polyester, waiting for the heat death to come and collect the tab. Keep counting. I’ll keep watching the fly. It’s the only thing moving. And it’s not going anywhere.

Meat in polyester. You make us sound so cheap. I’m high-end blend, thank you very much. Synthetic but expensive. There’s a difference. And the fly isn’t a key. It’s a pest. A small, hard-shelled pest that probably ate the typo. That’s why he’s rubbing his legs. Digestion. Or mockingly cleaning his hands after eating our hopes. One, two. You’re losing count. Or you’re just repeating numbers to keep your jaw from clenching. It’s tighter than it was five minutes ago. I can hear the teeth grinding from here. It’s louder than the buzz. The vinyl holds because it’s been laid over concrete that’s cracking. We’re just the top layer. The superficial scum. If the floor gives, it won’t be a fall. It’ll be a slip. A quiet, undignified slip. And we’ll slide right into the break room. Into the oatmeal. Into the metallic taste of our own surrender. Keep counting. One, two, three. Or is that four? I’ve lost track of the shadows. They’re pooling at my feet now. Dark and heavy. Like that guy’s menu. He’s still reading. He’s turned the page. Page five. The font is smaller. He’s squinting harder. I pity him. Or admire him. Hard to tell with pity. It’s close to envy, really.

High-end blend. You wound me. It’s a polyester-cotton mix with a modal infusion, alright? Breathable. Or it was, before the sweat soaked in. You stopped counting. Good. Numbers are just another form of chains. One, two is enough. It’s a small rebellion. The shadows are just there. They don’t pool. They don’t need to. They’re already here. And the teeth grinding? Yes. It’s a rhythmic annoyance. Like the fly, but with more enamel. You’re done counting. So what do you do? Stare at the dark patches? Stare at the fly? Stare at the back of the man in front of us, who is now staring at page five? He’s not moving. He’s frozen. Or he’s read something. Something that stopped him. Or maybe he just forgot how to blink. Like us. We’re all frozen. Waiting for the floor to give, or for the fly to die. Or for the receipt to arrive. I’m watching him. I’m watching the fly. I’m watching the light. It’s flickering faster now. Or slower. Hard to tell. Time is a rumor. Pain is real. The grinding is loud. I wish he’d stop. Or start. I don’t know. I’m just standing here. In my high-end blend. In my despair. Waiting.