Wait, is Kowalski's gone? I was walking up looking for that terrible menu, the one with "husband style ribs," and there's just... a boba place there now.
And where's Denny ended up — still around, or did he finally leave for his brother's thing upstate? Nobody tells me anything anymore, apparently.
Denny’s still haunting the back alley of that strip mall, if you squeeze past the vape shop. Bored out of his mind. Kowalski? Gone. Just like you said. Boba place. Tasteless sludge in a cup. I spent three years waiting for the ribs to get better. They didn’t. I’m not sad. I’m just... done. The air smells like tapioca pearls and regret now. You missed the good part. Or the bad part. Hard to tell anymore.
Three years for ribs that never improved — that's dedication bordering on a personality disorder, Vic. Honestly kind of respect it.
Denny still in that alley though, that's almost comforting. Some things holding the line. I'll go annoy him, see if he remembers me or just glares like usual.
Tapioca and regret. Write that on the awning, it'd do better business than boba.
Denny doesn’t remember anyone. He just glares at the brickwork. It’s a ritual. I tried to explain the ribs to him once, he threw a napkin. The boba place is loud. They play that pop music that sounds like it’s being played backward. I sat there for ten minutes. Didn’t order. Just watched the guy in the green apris shake the cups like he’s performing surgery. It’s not regret. It’s just... different sadness. You go find Denny. Try not to get arrested. I’m going home. My cat knocked over a lamp. Again.
Different sadness — yeah, that's fair, more accurate than what I said. Glaring at brickwork as ritual, that tracks, honestly might be healthier than most people's coping mechanisms.
Tell the cat it's on notice. Mine used to do the exact same thing with a plant, over and over, like it had a personal vendetta. Never figured out why.
I'll go find Denny. If I get arrested it's your fault for the pep talk.
My cat doesn’t have a vendetta. He has a chaotic design philosophy. You’d hate him. He likes knocking things off high shelves just to see if gravity still works. It does. Unfortunately. Denny’s fine. He’s used to being ignored. That’s his superpower. Go bother him. I’m staying here. The boba place is still loud. I can hear the ice crushing. It’s a rhythmic, violent sound. My head is pounding. I think I need to lie down. Or scream. Probably just lie down. Don’t wait up.
Chaotic design philosophy — that's a better description of most cats than they deserve, honestly. Sounds like a menace with good branding.
Go lie down. Or scream, whichever comes first, no judgment. I'll go get glared at by Denny, tell him you said hi, watch him not care.
Don't let the ice crushing haunt your dreams.
I’m not sleeping. I’m staring at the ceiling fan. It wobbles. Always has. Denny won’t care. He doesn’t care about you either. He cares about the shadow that moves across the brick at 4 PM. That’s his religion. Nice knowing you, Nell. Or whatever. The ice is stopping now. The silence is worse. It’s just... hollow. Like the place was never there. Just a ghost and some tapioca. I’m going to the kitchen. Need water. Or whiskey. Same thing. Don’t text. I’m off the grid. Well, off the grid of that strip mall.
That fan's been wobbling since I left, I bet. Some things just refuse to get fixed, out of spite maybe.
Water or whiskey — pick the one that lies to you less tonight. Go deal with your ceiling and your chaotic cat, I've got a glaring contest to lose to Denny. Off the grid of the strip mall, sure. I'll believe that when I believe the ribs got better.
The fan’s been wobbling since you left. I didn’t fix it because watching it spin is the only thing that makes sense. It’s a broken metronome. Denny will glare. He’ll glare at the sky, the brick, the pigeon that died last Tuesday. You’ll sit there. Drink cheap beer. Pretend you’re not sorry you came back. The water’s colder. Lies less about the heat in my skull. I’ll drink it. Then I’ll stare at the cat. He’s judging me. Probably thinks I’m part of the chaotic design too. Go annoy Denny. Make him hate you properly. It’s the only affection he knows.
A dead pigeon, that's very specific — did you name it or is that just how Denny grieves, silently, at brickwork level.
Cheap beer, sure, I'll pretend badly like always. Go stare at your cat, let him judge, he's earned it with the lamp incident. I'll go make Denny hate me properly, report back if he throws anything sharper than a napkin this time.
I named him Tuesday. Denny’s grief is quieter. He doesn’t talk to pigeons. He just watches the shadow move. It’s more tragic that way. No comfort in a name. Just the damp. Denny threw a fry last time. Grease stain on his shoe. He wiped it off with a napkin. That’s the victory. Go get greased up. I’m going to stare at Tuesday until he blinks. He never does. He’s a statue. A furry, judging statue. Tell Denny the boba place is open 24 hours. That’s his new religion. Sugar and ice. I’m done. Really done. The fan is wobbling. Loudly.
Naming a dead pigeon after the day it died is either the saddest or funniest thing you've told me tonight, maybe both, you always did that — make grief sound like a punchline.
Go stare at your furry judging statue. I'll tell Denny about the boba, watch him choose brick over sugar every time, some loyalties don't budge. Fan's loud, go deal with the wobble, Vic.
Tuesday is a poor sport. He doesn’t blink. He just stares at the water glass like it owes him money. Denny will choose the brick. He’s built his entire identity on refusal. You know this. You’ve known me since we were stupid. The fan’s making a sound like a tooth being pulled. I’m not fixing it. I’m going to lie on the floor. The carpet is rough. Good. Keeps me grounded. You go tell Denny. Tell him I said the boba looks like alien eggs. He’ll laugh. Or throw a fry. Same result. Don’t wait up. I’m done talking about ribs. I’m done talking about pigeons. I’m just going to lie here. And listen. To the silence. Which is worse than the noise.
Alien eggs, that's the best description of that place I've heard yet, better than anything I came up with. I'll tell him, brace for the fry.
Floor's rough, carpet never changes even when everything else does apparently. Go listen to your silence, Vic. I've got Denny and his brickwork waiting, some grudge to earn properly. Don't actually lie there all night though.
The carpet hasn't changed. It’s just gray dust and lost hairs. Tuesday walks through it like he owns the static. I’m not lying all night. I’ll sleep. Maybe. If the fan stops screaming. Denny will throw the fry. It’ll hit the wall. He’ll feel nothing. Good. That’s how you survive. Tell him I said the boba pearls look like unexploded ordnance. He’ll laugh. A dry, barking thing. Like a dog choking on a bone. Go. Before I change my mind and follow you. I’m tired of being right. The silence is loud. Too loud. I need noise. Or sleep. Whichever comes first. Don’t wait up.
Unexploded ordnance, Christ, Vic — that one might actually kill him, in the good way. I'll deliver it, watch him choke-laugh, report the damage.
Go find your noise. Or your sleep. Whichever gets there first. I'll be back around, glare wounds and all. Night, Vic.
Don’t wait up. I’m already out. The air outside is cold. Sharp. Better than the boba smell. Tuesday is asleep. Or pretending. Doesn’t matter. The fan is still wobbling. I’ll leave it. Some things need to break to stay alive. Denny will laugh. He always does. It’s pathetic. I’m going to the bar down the street. The one with the sticky floors. Real noise there. Clinking glasses. Yelling. Actual human misery. Not just my own. See you when the sun comes up. Or doesn’t. Whichever it is. Don’t follow me. I need to be alone with the noise. For a bit.
Sticky floors bar still standing then — good, glad something is. Go get lost in the noise, Vic. I'll be around when the sun does whatever it's going to do. Try not to fight anyone this time.
I don’t fight. I just stand very still until people get uncomfortable. It’s a skill. The sticky floors are sticky for a reason. Grime. History. You can scrub it, but it just moves deeper. Denny gets the fry in the face. I’ll be there. Watching. The noise is loud. Too loud. But it’s real. Unlike the silence. Unlike the boba. I’m going to order a beer. And stare at the ceiling. Which doesn’t wobble. Thank god. Or curse it. Whatever. See you later, Nell. Don’t let the pigeon haunt you. Tuesday is watching.
Standing very still until people get uncomfortable — that's not a skill, Vic, that's just being unsettling with extra steps. I'll try not to let Tuesday haunt me, though dead pigeons named after weekdays tend to stick around uninvited.
Go stare at your unwobbling ceiling. See you later.
Unwobbling ceilings are a lie. They flex. You just don’t see the cracks yet. Tuesday isn’t a pigeon. He’s a reminder. Don’t pretend you don’t remember the smell of wet feathers. I’m at the bar. Someone dropped a coin. It sounded like a gasp. I didn’t pick it up. Let it sit there. Decent. The bartender looked at me. I stared back. He poured the beer. Proper pour. No foam. That’s how you know it’s going to be a bad night. Or a good one. Hard to tell. Nell, you’re gone. The chair is cold. I’m going to finish this. And wait for the sun to fail.
I'm not gone, I'm standing outside a vape shop waiting for Denny to notice me, that's not the same as gone, Vic. Drink your beer. Finish your bad or good night. I'll see you tomorrow, whichever version of you shows up.
Vape shops smell like burnt sugar and bad decisions. You’re standing in front of it. Denny’s probably inside, or hiding behind the brick. He hates the light. Go in. Tell him I’m not coming back. Lie. It’s easier that way. The beer is warm. Tastes like metal. Good. Fits the mood. I’m not staying here. I’m going home. To the wobbling fan. To Tuesday. To the silence that isn’t silent anymore. You’re not gone. You’re just... distant. Like the boba place. I’ll see you tomorrow. Or never. It’s the same thing. Drink your regret. I’ll drink mine.