Edie. God, that smell out there — rain hitting the tarmac while it's still hot, I always forget how much I love that until it happens. Almost didn't come, honestly. Sat in the car for like ten minutes just — I don't know. But I'm here. You look good. Really good, actually, I mean it, not just saying it.
Smell’s awful, actually. Like burning rubber and regret. But sure, let’s pretend it’s poetic.
Don’t start with the compliments, Jo. I haven’t even taken my coat off. You know I hate it when you try to disarm me before we’ve even said hello properly. It’s slick. Too slick.
I did wait in the car for twenty minutes. Not ten. Staring at that crack in the pavement like a detective trying to solve a murder I didn’t commit. And I still almost walked away.
You’re smiling. Why are you smiling?
Because you always exaggerate the numbers to win, and it's annoying and I've missed it, both things at once. Twenty minutes, ten minutes — fine, you win, you suffered more. I'm smiling because you're still doing the coat thing. You never take it off till you've decided if you're staying. You haven't decided yet. That's fine. I'm not going to pretend that's fine, actually, but go on, keep it on.
You’re observant. It’s a flaw. I should weaponize it.
My boss is an idiot. Literally. I sent him a report at 3 AM because I couldn’t sleep, and now he thinks I’m a machine. I laughed. I just sat there in the kitchen laughing until my ribs hurt. It’s not funny, Jo. It’s tragic. But he’s dangerous.
I’m keeping the coat. It’s heavy. Wool. It feels like armor. You want me to take it off? Show me a reason. Or don’t. I’ve been waiting a long time to see if you’d actually ask properly.
Don't weaponize it on me, I already know how that ends. And no, I'm not asking properly, that's not — we don't do that, that's not how this works between us, you know that. Keep the coat on, wear it to the wedding for all I care.
Your boss sounds like every boss I've ever had. Mine thinks I'm competent because I answer emails fast, not because I'm actually good, there's a difference nobody in that building understands. 3am reports though — that's not laughing, Edie, that's something else.
Fast replies. Yeah. It’s a trap. You answer quickly, they assume you’re free. You’re not. You’re just tired.
I’m not laughing at the boss. I’m laughing because I’m broke. Rent went up. The landlord’s a prick. He wants cash. I have to work weekends now. I hate weekends. They’re just Monday’s sad cousin.
You’re right about the time. It wasn’t funny. It was panic. Pure, cold panic. I stared at the ceiling until the sun came up. The light looked gray.
We don’t do “asking properly.” Fine. So we don’t. But you’re still here. Why?
Because I let it go too long and I know it, that's why, plain as that. Not some grand reason. I kept meaning to call and then it was a month, then it was — whatever it's been. And I told myself you'd hate the apology more than the silence, so I skipped it and just showed up instead. Cheap trick, probably. But rent's gone up on me too, if it makes you feel better about the landlord.
Cheap? Maybe. Effective, though. You showed up. That’s the only part that counts now.
Rent up. Great. So we’re both drowning in the same shallow end. Comforting, really. Knowing you’re just as stuck as I am. Don’t get poetic about it, Jo. I didn’t come here to bond over property values.
I didn’t hate the silence. I just forgot how to bridge it. My fingers felt stiff. Like I’d lost the shape of your number. Or maybe I just didn’t want to be the one reaching out first. Pride. Ugly, stupid pride.
You’re standing in my hallway. The coat is still on. What’s next?
What's next is you decide if you're staying long enough to sit down, because I didn't drive over just to hover in your hallway like a salesman. There's wine open, it's not great wine, don't get excited. And we still haven't figured out what we're doing about the flat — that's not going to sort itself before the landlord wants an answer, and I know you've been avoiding it same as me.
Wine? Finally.
The flat. God. I tried calling the agency yesterday. They put me on hold. I hung up. Couldn’t breathe.
I’m not avoiding it. I’m paralyzed. If I sign, I commit. If I don’t, I’m homeless. It’s a binary trap. You’d know. You’re good at traps.
Sit down, then. But don’t think this means I’m staying for tea. I’m staying because I don’t have anywhere else to go tonight. And because that wine smells like vinegar.
Pass the glass. Don’t touch me. Yet.
It smells like vinegar because it's basically vinegar, I told you not to get excited. Here.
It's not binary, that's the panic talking. Ask for two more days, tell them you're finalizing details, landlords say that to buyers constantly, agencies expect it. You don't have to decide tonight in this kitchen with bad wine, you just have to decide before it actually closes, which — what, tomorrow noon? We can get through tonight without solving your whole life. Drink first.
Two days. Yeah. Right.
You always did know how to talk. It’s annoying. And useful.
I drink. It’s sour. Burns going down. Good burn.
Tomorrow noon. I have until tomorrow noon. The world doesn’t end if I say no. But it feels like it does. Like if I breathe wrong, everything collapses.
You’re sitting now. Close. Too close. You smell like rain and regret too.
I’m not telling anyone. You’re just a panic attack with a pulse. And I’m… I’m just tired of standing.
So. What’s the plan? Because I’m not signing anything tonight.
Nobody's signing anything tonight, that's the whole plan. Tonight's just wine and you not standing anymore. Tomorrow you call before noon, you say yes or no, and either way I'll still be an idiot who took twenty minutes — sorry, ten — sorry, doesn't matter — too long to show up. That's not nothing, breathing wrong. But the flat's not going anywhere in the next eight hours except getting cheaper to think about with a second glass in you.
Second glass? You’re pushing it. I’m already feeling the head rush.
You say it like it’s simple. “Just breathe.” As if my lungs forgot how. They haven’t. They just stopped trusting the air.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Whatever. You were there. You stayed. That’s the only data point that matters.
I’m sitting. The chair is hard. My back hurts. But the wine is… warm.
If I say yes tomorrow, does that mean I’m safe? Or just delayed?
You’re looking at me like I’m a puzzle you’ve already solved. It’s arrogant. I like it.
Pass the bottle. And don’t say anything else. Just sit there. Be present. That’s hard enough.
Delayed. Nobody's safe, Edie, that's not a thing landlords sell. But delayed's not nothing either, delayed means you get to hate the flat for another year instead of hating yourself tonight.
Here. Bottle's yours now, I've had enough. Not going to say anything else. Just — pass me your feet, put them up, chair's not doing your back any favors and I'd rather you complain about that than the ceiling again.
You’re bossy. It’s irritating.
I put my feet up. They’re cold. You didn’t say anything. Just watched.
The wine’s gone warm in the glass. Tastes like dirt now. Good dirt.
My back does hurt. Sore from standing. From waiting. From carrying the coat, the bag, the silence.
You’re right about the flat. Hating it for a year is better than hating myself tonight. At least the flat has walls. Me? I’m just noise.
Keep quiet. I need to think. Or not think. Hard to tell the difference lately.
Is that better? Or just uncomfortable?
Bit of both, probably. That's usually how better starts out.
Comfortable? Don’t lie. My toes are numb. But the chair’s okay.
You’re quiet. Good. I like the quiet. It’s not heavy tonight. Just… there. Like dust.
I thought about the boss again. The 3 AM report. I deleted it. Didn’t send it. Felt like cutting off a limb. But I kept my pride.
You’re still staring. I can feel it. On my shoulder.
Don’t.
...Actually, don’t look away. Just keep looking. Like you’re trying to memorize the shape of my coat buttons.
This is dangerous. You know that, right? Letting me stay. Letting me sit.
But the wine’s gone. And I’m not moving.
Dangerous how you like it, though. Not the other kind.
Buttons are brass, by the way, gone a bit green at the edges. Old coat. You've had it since — I don't even know, longer than you've had me around, apparently.
Wine's gone, you're right, and I'm not getting up either. Chair's yours till noon if you want it. We'll figure out the rest of it standing up, tomorrow, with better wine and worse light. Tonight's just this. Dust and buttons and you not moving.
Green edges. You noticed. I wear it because it hides stains. And because it weighs enough to keep me grounded.
Since you. Yeah. Before you was just… noise. Noisy rooms, loud phones. You were quiet. Predictable. I liked that. Then I stopped liking it because I thought it was pity.
Stains. There’s a mark on the cuff. Ink? Wine? I don’t know. I stopped checking years ago.
Standing up tomorrow. Fine. But tonight, I’m stationary. You’re stuck with the chair. And the coat. And the silence.
Don’t move. If you move, I might have to get up. And I won’t.
Your knee’s touching mine. Through the wool. Is that what you’re doing? Testing the boundaries?
It’s working. Don’t pull away.
Not testing anything. Knee's just where it landed, chair's small, kitchen's smaller than I remember. Wasn't pity, for what it's worth — never was. Predictable's not the insult you think it is either, it's just what's left when you stop performing for someone. I stopped performing for you a long time ago. That's not nothing.
Not pulling away. Ink, probably, on the cuff. You always chewed your pens. Some things don't change even when everything else does.
Performing. There it is. The word I’ve been avoiding all evening.
You stopped performing. Good. I hate the show. I hate the applause. I just want the quiet.
Ink. Yeah. I still do it. Every time I’m nervous. Or lying. Or both.
Pity’s gone. Proud of you for saying it. Makes me feel less like a charity case.
The knee. It’s warm. Through the wool. It’s annoying. It’s comforting. I don’t know which.
Don’t move. Don’t speak.
If I fall asleep, I’m blaming the wine. And the chair. And you.
But I’m not moving. Neither are you.
This is dangerous. But it’s quiet.
Blame whoever you want, I'm not arguing with someone half-asleep in a dead man's coat.
Sleep if you're going to sleep. I'll still be here at noon when the phone rings, whatever you decide. Not going anywhere before that.
Quiet's fine by me. Best thing either of us has said all night, probably.
Dead man’s coat. Sharp.
I’m not sleeping. Not yet. Just… closing my eyes. The darkness is softer than the room.
You’re still there. Good. I need to know you’re real before I have to face the landlord. Or the boss. Or the ink stains.
Noon. It’s so far away. And so close.
Don’t move. If you breathe too loud, I’ll wake up. And I don’t want to wake up. I want to stay in this gray space where nothing matters except the weight of the coat and the warmth of your knee.
It’s quiet.
Yeah. Best thing we’ve said.
I’m staying.
Don’t celebrate. Not yet. Just… keep the silence.