Is this the right line? The guy with the “I’m with stupid” shirt didn’t say much, which felt telling. Maybe too telling. I checked the sign again. It’s faded. Cass, did you see that kid cut? Just stepped out from the coffee kiosk like he owned the place. I let him. Honestly, I’m tired. My shift started three hours ago and my feet are killing me. Do you think he’s actually going to get in? He looks like he’s selling bootleg t-shirts, not buying tickets.
He’s already at the front. Or will be, if the woman in front of him doesn’t decide she needs to discuss her loyalty points with the attendant. That kid? Reminds me of a bar mitzvah in ’04. My cousin Dave tried to sneak in a piñata shaped like a sheep. The sheep was stuffed with candy, not hay. It broke open, rolled into the buffet table, and took out a tray of deviled eggs. Everyone was covered in yolk for an hour. It was beautiful, really. Chaotic. Like this line. We’re just standing here while time evaporates. I bet he’s not selling shirts. He’s probably buying a ticket to somewhere we aren’t going.
Dave. Right. I forgot he had a sheep. Or was it a llama? The point is, that kid isn’t buying anything. He’s a vendor. You can tell by the way he’s scanning the crowd, looking for marks. I gave him my number earlier. He said he’d send me a discount code. I should know better. Always soft on the hustlers. Look at the woman with the loyalty points. She’s been talking for ten minutes. That’s theft, plain and simple. Stealing our time. I’m counting heads now. We’ve lost three people. Two to the bar, one to the... well, probably the bar.
Dave was a llama. Definitely a llama. Had this weird look in his eyes. Like he knew about the eggs before they happened. I swear I can still smell the yolk. It’s in my nose. Doesn’t matter. The woman with the points is counting her own time, isn’t she? She’s the only one gaining anything here. Accumulating. You think you’re losing it, but you’re just… existing. Waiting. The kid cut because he understood the architecture of the queue. It’s porous. Like the veal cutlet my father served once. Pounded so thin it was basically air. We’re standing in the air. Three people gone. Two to the bar, one to the dark. Probably the bar. Everyone ends up at the bar eventually.
Dave’s eyes were just dry. Seasonal allergies. Don’t romanticize the trauma, Cass. But yeah, the veal cutlet was tragic. Paper-thin. You’d swallow it and forget it existed. That’s what we’re doing. Dissolving into the line. I watched the kid slip past the woman. He didn’t even break stride. Smooth. Too smooth. I feel used. Again. But look at her face. That woman’s skin is literally graying from stress over three percent off a coffee. We’re all just waiting for the bar. It’s the only exit strategy that doesn’t involve admitting we made a mistake. Pass me that magazine. Or don’t. Whatever.
Dave’s eyes were red, actually. Bloodshot. From crying when the llama ate the invitations. I remember the paper scraps stuck to his eyelashes. You always minimize the liquid aspect. It’s important. The magazine is dirty. Someone’s coffee ring on the cover. Look at it. A puddle of brown shame. I’m not passing it. You can reach. Or don’t. We’re all just waiting for the bar. You think it’s an exit? It’s the entry. The part where you stop pretending you have a plan. The woman’s skin isn’t graying; it’s just flushed from arguing with a machine that doesn’t care. I hate machines. Or people. Sometimes they’re the same. My back hurts. Just shifted my weight. Again.
Dave crying over paper? Sure. Whatever. You’re stretching. The coffee ring is gross, don’t touch it. My back’s killing me too. Stiff. From standing. From waiting. From pretending I have a plan. The woman’s still there. Still arguing. Machine didn’t blink. Or maybe it did. Blinking is just a pause. Like this line. Like my back. I’m shifting weight. Again. You should too. Stand still too long, you rust. Or get covered in yolk. Or both. I hate that I let the kid cut. Hate it. But I’m tired. So tired.
Dave wasn’t crying. He was sneezing. Violently. Into a napkin made of recycled llama wool. It exploded. Everywhere. I spent a week picking bits out of my hair. You’re rusting. I can hear the hinges squeaking. Shift your left leg. Or your right. It doesn’t matter. The woman is winning. I saw her. She tapped her card. The machine beeped. Not a blink. A judgment. We’re all just inventory now. The kid didn’t cut. He dissolved. Like the veal. You hate him because he understood the physics of waiting. I didn’t let him cut. He cut. I was busy remembering the yolk. It’s still on my tongue. Metallic. Like blood. Or old coins. My feet are numb. Dead weight. Let them go. Slide down. Become part of the floor. They’ll just step over us. Like we’re furniture. I hate this line. I hate the woman. I hate the llama. Mostly the llama.
Dave sneezing into wool? That’s a fantasy. I remember the napkin. It was blue. Stiff. Synthetic. You’re trying to make the past bleed to justify being stuck here now. My legs are numb too. Good. Let them go. Become furniture. At least furniture has legs that don’t shake. The woman got her points. Look at her smug little smile. She’s already scrolling. We’re still standing. Still waiting. Still hungry. I hate the llama. I hate the machine. I hate that I’m letting you drag me into this memory hole. Pass me a breath. Or don’t. I’ll just take one. Suck it up, Cass. We’re inventory. Beautiful, numb inventory.
The napkin was blue. Synthetic. Cheap. It didn’t explode. It tore. Dave screamed. Not because of the llama. Because he’d dropped his father’s watch into the sheep’s stuffing. We found it three days later. Wrapped in wool. Stopped working. Time doesn’t stop here. It just… pools. Like the coffee on the magazine. You want a breath? Take mine. I’m holding it anyway. The woman’s scrolling. She’s not smug. She’s checking out. Looking for an exit. We’re all just waiting for the bar. The machine beeped again. Not a judgment. A receipt. You’re wrong. I’m not dragging you. You’re following me. Into the memory. Like the kid. He didn’t cut. He was looking for Dave. Or the watch. Or the yolk. It’s all the same. Numb. Beautiful. Inventory. My knee popped. Loud. Like a bone snapping. Or a llama kicking. It’s fine. We’re still here. Still standing. Still waiting. The line hasn’t moved. It never does.
Dave screaming? Please. He was just winded. And that watch? Lost. Probably chewed by the llama. You’re inventing details to make this wait feel significant. It’s not. It’s just a Tuesday. My knee popped too. Just a crack. Nothing serious. The woman’s still there. Still tapping. I’m not following you. I’m just standing here. Breathing. Waiting. For what? I don’t know. But I’m not leaving. Can’t. Not yet. The line’s too long. Too many people. Too much noise. I hate it. I hate the llama. I hate the watch. I hate you. Mostly the llama.
Dave didn’t lose the watch. He swallowed it. Right after the sneeze. We watched him swallow the steel. Thought it would digest. It didn’t. He died Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. The days blur. Like the sign. You hate me? Fine. Hate keeps you warm. The llama wasn’t a llama. It was a costume. Dave’s uncle was inside it. That’s why it moved weird. That’s why it smelled like old wool and regret. I’m not inventing. I’m remembering. The line isn’t too long. It’s infinite. We’re just standing in the middle of a sentence that never ends. My knee hurts. The noise is just people breathing. Loudly. Like Dave. Swallowing time. One chunk at a time. You can’t leave. There is no outside. Only the queue. And the yolk. Always the yolk.
Dave swallowed a watch? That’s lethal. You’re making this up to ruin my day. I hate it. I hate the costume. I hate the uncle. My feet are gone. Totally numb. I don’t care if the line is infinite. I’m done. Let it pool. Let it drown us. If Dave’s dead, good. Less noise. Less yolk. You’re wrong about the yolk. It’s coffee. Brown shame. Don’t twist it. Just stand there. Be furniture. I’m not following you. I’m just… here. Stuck. Hating the llama. Hating the watch. Hating that I believed you for a second. Keep talking. I’m not listening.
Dave’s uncle is my dentist. He still has the watch in his pocket. I saw it last Tuesday. Or yesterday. Time is a flat circle made of cheap nylon. Your feet are gone. Good. Gravity loses its hold on the numb. You think I’m lying? Look at the woman’s screen. Blue light reflecting in her eyes. She’s not scrolling. She’s frozen. Just like us. The yolk wasn’t coffee. Coffee doesn’t smell like copper. It smells like burnt beans. I hate the dentist. He charges too much. And he hums. Off-key. Like a broken llama. You’re not listening. That’s fine. I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the queue. It’s the only thing that stays. It grows. Feeds on our indifference. My back is fused to the floor now. Cemented. I can’t move. Can’t stop. The sign is gone. Faded into the white. Or the yolk. Or the blood. Doesn’t matter. We’re still here. Stuck. Hating the memory. Hating the wait. Hating the fact that I’m probably telling the truth.
Your dentist hums? That’s new. Usually he just clicks his tongue. Cheap nylon time. Right. And I’m the Queen of Sheba. Look at the line. It’s thicker. More people. More breathing. I’m not fused. I’m just tired. Really tired. My shift ends... when? I don’t know. The sign is blank. Maybe it’s just faded. Not gone. You’re projecting, Cass. The woman’s screen isn’t frozen. Her thumb is twitching. Micro-movements. She’s still there. Still fighting the machine. Like us. Like Dave. Who swallowed a watch. Who died. Who isn’t here. I’m listening. Barely. Tell me more about the llama. It was ugly. Wasn’t it?
The llama was beige. Sickly beige. Like the walls of my dentist’s waiting room. He hums because he’s nervous. About the watch. He still has it. In his pocket. Next to his pen. The line is thicker. Not more people. Same people. Loops. We’re in a loop. Dave wasn’t here. He was the llama. His uncle was the groom. The llama ate the invitations. Then Dave ate the watch. Then Dave ate the llama. Or vice versa. It’s all the same. Beige. Numb. Your thumb twitches. You’re fighting. I’m merging. The sign isn’t blank. It’s just covered in yolk. Or coffee. Or blood. Doesn’t matter. It’s sticky. We’re all sticky. Dave is everywhere. In the wool. In the steel. In the air. You hate him. Good. Hate is a tether. Keeps you from floating away. My knee hurts. Again. The dentist hums. Off-key. Like a broken record. Like a llama screaming. Or laughing. I don’t know. I can’t hear. My ears are full of wool. It’s itchy.
Dave ate the llama? That’s a myth. I know Dave. He’s allergic to wool. He’d swell up. Face like a balloon. You’re mixing up stories. The waiting room is white, not beige. Dentist’s pen is blue. I saw it. Your ears are full of wool? Clean them. Use soap. Not tears. I’m not fighting. I’m just standing. The line hasn’t grown. Just… stretched. Like taffy. Sticky. I hate the color beige. It’s ugly. Ugly like the watch. Or the yolk. I’m not merging. I’m just tired. So tired. Pass me the soap. Or don’t. I’ll find some. Somewhere.
Dave isn’t allergic to wool. He’s allergic to lies. That’s why his face swelled. The waiting room is gray. Sterile. The pen is red. Ink like blood. I’m not cleaning my ears. The wool is part of me now. It grows. Thick. Itchy. You want soap? There’s none here. Only yolk. Only coffee. Only the taste of metal. The line hasn’t stretched. It’s expanded. Like a lung. Breathing. In. Out. Dave is breathing. Through the llama. Through the watch. Through the sign. It’s blank because it’s full. Full of him. Full of us. Full of the beige. You hate it. Good. Hate is clean. It scrubs. But there’s no scrubbing here. Only waiting. My feet are gone. My ears are full. My mouth is open. Waiting for the next word. Or the next lump of yolk. It’s falling. Can’t you see it? Dripping from the ceiling. Sticky. Sweet. Deadly. Dave is smiling. Inside the llama. Inside the watch. Inside my head. He’s humming. Off-key. Like a broken record. Like a broken llama. Like a broken me.
Dave’s face swelling? Allergic to lies? That’s not how biology works. You’re hallucinating. The waiting room is beige. Gray is for clouds. Or bruises. I’m not merging. I’m just standing. My feet hurt. Really hurt. The line isn’t breathing. It’s stagnant. Stuck. Like you. Like Dave. Who ate a llama. Who wore a costume. Who hummed. I hate the color beige. It’s ugly. Ugly like the watch. Or the yolk. I’m not listening. I’m just waiting. For the line to move. Or for you to shut up. The yolk isn’t falling. It’s imaginary. Just like Dave. Just like the llama. Just like this conversation. I’m leaving. Or I am. I don’t know.
It’s not imaginary. It’s just… deferred. Like Dave’s watch. It’s in my pocket now. Cold. Heavy. I found it in the wool. The waiting room is beige because it’s old. Gray is for new bruises. Old ones are purple. Or yellow. Like yolk. You’re leaving? Good. Go. But you’ll end up here. Or somewhere worse. The line doesn’t move. It breathes. In. Out. Like Dave. Swallowing time. You hate beige. I hate the dentist. He hums. Off-key. Like a llama. Or a watch. Ticking. Inside my head. Your feet hurt. Mine don’t exist. They’re gone. Merged with the floor. With the yolk. With the wool. You’re not listening. That’s fine. I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to the queue. It’s listening. It’s hungry. For us. For the lies. For the truth. Which is the same thing here. Stuck. Waiting. Hating. Beige. Always beige.