Do you remember Elias? The one who stayed at that lighthouse out on the point? He looked like a complete wreck by the end. I saw his brother last week in the city, near the train station, and he didn't even recognize me. Honestly. It's been too long, I know. I've been thinking about that way the light used to hit the kitchen table right before dawn. It was blinding. How have you been? You look thinner.
Elias was always too fragile for his own good. I'm not surprised his brother didn't recognize you; people change when they stop trying to be seen. I'm fine, just tired of the commute. The office is still a tomb and the fluorescent lights there give me a headache. And don't start me, Vic. I don't think much about the table anymore. It feels like a fever dream. You've always been too sentimental about the light.
Sentimental? That's rich. you. It's just physics, Nell, light doesn't care about your feelings. My office is a joke too, covered in blueprints and the smell of old radiator, but at least the view has some character. You're just wandering through life complaining about the shadows. I saw a copy of those old journals yesterday and it reminded me of you writing that nonsense. Are you still doing that? Or are you just going to sit there under those lights until your eyes bleed?
I haven't touched those journals in years. That was a phase, a pathetic one at it. As for your office, a view of a rotting brick wall is still a view of a rotting brick wall. I'm not sitting here, I'm working. There's a difference, though sometimes I can't tell the difference myself. I thought about throwing the blueprints out the window today, just to spite the radiator. You always did love for drama in the mundane.
Drama? It's called living, Nell. If you threw those blueprints out, they'd just land on the sidewalk for someone else to choke on. And don't act like the brick wall is any better. It has history. I happened to pass that bakery on the way here—the one that smells like burnt sugar—and thought of. You're always so defensive. It's exhausting. Do you ever just stop fighting with the radiator, or are you that committed to being miserable?
The bakery closed months ago, Vic. It's a vape shop now. You're chasing ghosts and calling it a memory. And I'm not defensive, I'm realistic. There's a difference between being miserable and acknowledging that the radiator is the only thing in this building that actually works, however. If I stopped fighting, I'd just freeze, and I'm not planning on that. You always had a way of making everything sound like a tragedy. It's draining.
A vape shop? God, the world is getting smaller and ugl. You call it realism, but I call it being narrow. You've always found the quickest way to the bottom of any room. If I'm a drain, maybe the radiator is your only friend. I saw a dog in the park today that looked exactly like the one Elias used to have. It was shivering. It made me feel a bit sick, actually. Is that what life is now? Just staying warm while everything else turns to plastic?
It was just a dog, Vic. It wasn't a sign. It was probably shivering because it was cold, not because of Elias. The world isn't turning to plastic; it's just moving on without you. You keep looking for meaning in every stray animal. I don't have the energy for it. I just want to get through the day without some existential crisis happening over lunch. If a shivering dog makes you sick, that's your problem, not mine.
Always with the ice. It's like you've built a fortress out of sheer indifference. You think you're being practical, but you're just being cold. It's a difference. I didn't ask for a lecture, I just shared a thought. But go ahead, go back to your tomb and your fluorescent lights. Eat your cereal and forget the world exists. Maybe that's a brilliant strategy, really. Truly the peak of survival.
Cereal is fine. It doesn't require a monologue. You talk about fortresses like I'm the one standing in the rain. It's not indifference, it's just being tired of having every little observation of yours affect my mood. If that makes me cold, then so, I'll take it. I have work to finish and the radiator isn't going to fix itself. Go find your dog or your bakery. I'm staying right here.
Fine. Stay there. Rot in your chair. I'm going down to that dive bar on the corner—the one where the floor doesn't stick as much as it used. You talk like you're a martyr for just finishing a spreadsheet, but nobody sees the beat. It's pathetic, really. I'll probably call you later, or maybe I won't. Don't hold your breath. Enjoy the silence. I hope it keeps you company.
Don't call. The silence is actually better than the alternative. Go to your dive bar; I'm sure the floor is just as sticky as the conversation is. I'm not a martyr, Vic, I'm just a person who wants to finish her work without a performance review. If you find that pathetic, that's your business. I have spreadsheets to finish, and they don't care about your poetic sense of the world.
Spreadsheets. Right. As if those numbers actually mean anything to the universe. You've buried yourself in data, Nell. It's not a life, it's just a way to disappear quietly. I'll be at the bar. At least the bartender doesn't pretend the world owes for a higher purpose. Don't wait up for the phone ring. I'm sure the cells in your grid are much more interesting than I am tonight.
The universe doesn't owe us anything, and that's exactly what I understand. I'm not disappearing, I'm just busy. There's a difference between a life and a performance, so stop tracking my phone. Drink your drink and stop pretending I'm waiting for anything from you. The numbers are honest; they don't demand a feeling to be valid. You find that exhausting. I have work to do.
Honest numbers. That's what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night. It's a lie, Nell, but a comfortable one, I suppose. And I'm not tracking your phone, I have better things to do. Go then, finish your columns and your rows. They'll be there tomorrow, too. I'm going to find a drink that doesn't taste like regret. See you, or not. Who cares.
They'll be there tomorrow because that's the point. Things don't change just because you're having a moment. Go find your drink, I'm sure it'll be better than this conversation. I don't care if you see me or not; I've grown used to you being unavailable. The door is right there, Vic. Don't let it on the way out.
The door was always open, Nell, you're just the one who locked it from the inside. You talk about being unavailable like it's a choice, but it's just a shield. I'm leaving. Don't worry about the hinges. I hope the spreadsheets give you the hug you can't get from anyone else. I'm already reaching for the handle. Good luck with the radiator.
The door isn't locked, it's just a door. You always loved to make an exit like a performance. Go then. I don't need a hug from a spreadsheet, and I certainly don't need one from you. The radiator is warm, which is more than I can ask for tonight. Pull the handle and leave. I have actual things to do.
I'm going. God, you're so determined to be right. It's just a door, and a radiator, for heaven's sake. I'll leave you to your warmth and your silence. Try not to trip over the irony on the way out. I'm out.
Finally. The irony isn't tripping me, but the sound of your voice is. Close the door on your way out; the draft is getting in. I'm not going to watch you go, Vic. Enjoy your bar and your drama. I have a column to finish.
I'm closing it. See? There's the click. No draft, no more voice. Just you and your column. I hope the ink is as cold as you are tonight. I'm gone. Don't look at the clock.
I'm not looking at the clock. I don't care what time it is. The ink is just ink, and the column is just data. You always had to have the last word, even if it's meaningless. Now the door is actually closed, and I can finally think.
Finally. The silence you wanted so badly is yours now. Enjoy your data, Nell. It doesn't talk back, does it? Perfect. I'm halfway down the street now, and it's freezing. The streetlamp outside is blinking in a rhythm that doesn't make any sense. Good luck with your columns.
The streetlamp is just broken. It's not a rhythm, it's a faulty wire. You always wanted to find a code in everything broken. If it's freezing, you should have worn a heavier coat. I'm not here listening to your walk home. The data is quiet, and I like that.