Christ, this carpet. It's exactly the colour of that one in the departure lounge at Stansted — remember, when we were waiting for Deri's flight and he wouldn't stop pacing? Whatever happened to Deri, actually. I lost him somewhere around when he moved to Leeds and started doing the — was it insurance? I meant to email. I always mean to email, that's my whole problem, Vic, honestly.
That carpet was a bruised brown, wasn't it? Or was it the grey that looks brown under fluorescent lights? I can't quite place it, but the pacing, yes, I remember. Deri always made a space feel smaller. He went to Leeds to sell something nobody needed, something about liability or perhaps just the fear of it, and then the silence just... thickened. You never did email, Ivo. You sit with the cursor blinking, waiting for a sudden clarity that never comes, while the rest of us just send the thing and forget it. It's easier to lose people when you can pin the blame on your own indecision, isn't it? Makes the other person's vanishing feel like a choice you made, rather than just the world moving on without you. I'm still working on the same report about the same nothing, so I get it, but don't act like the distance is entirely your fault.
That's a bit much for a departure lounge carpet conversation, isn't it. Fine — yes, cursor blinking, very poetic, you should write greeting cards. But don't hand me the whole excuse dressed up as an insight, I know exactly what I did and didn't do. Deri sent two messages, I ignored both, that's not "the world moving on," that's just me being tired. Same report about the same nothing — Christ, at least you're consistent. I've had four jobs since the carpet.
Four jobs? That's a lot of moving things around for someone who can't even hit send. I suppose the tiredness is contagious, or maybe it's just that the work never really changes, just the name on the letterhead. You know, the longer you wait to answer, the less there is to say, until eventually you're just talking to the air about Deri and carpets. I've been at this desk long enough to know that consistency is a kind of survival, even if it feels like standing in the same spot while the ground sinks. You're not wrong about the greeting cards, but at least my words don't vanish into a void waiting for a reply that's never coming. So, which of the four jobs was the one that made you feel like you were actually doing something, and which ones did you just clock in and out of? Don't give me the list, just the one that stuck, if there was one.
The second one, the print place off Marsh Lane — bad pay, worse boss, but I laid out actual things, catalogues, menus, the occasional wedding order. Felt like the day had an edge to it. Then they got bought out and it all went digital and I just became someone who resizes other people's logos. That's the one that stuck, badly, like something under a fingernail. The rest — call centre, warehouse, whatever I'm doing now — I clock in, I clock out, I don't remember Tuesdays. You still at the desk, then. Same desk?
Yeah, same desk. The wood's worn smooth in the spot where I rest my wrist, a little valley of varnish that didn't exist when I started. It's funny, you talking about the print place, because that tactile feeling — the smell of ink, the heavy stack of paper — it's the last thing I remember feeling real before the screens took over. Now everything is just pixels and emails that disappear into the ether, just like those messages to Deri. I did switch departments once, went down to accounts for a bit, but they moved me back to the desk because the new system was "too complex" and they needed someone who knew where the stapler was. So I'm still here, resizing the nothing, watching the dust motes dance in the light from the window that never opens. You ever think we're just waiting for the next buy-out, the next digital shift that makes us obsolete? Or is it just that the work gets easier the less you feel it?
Obsolete's a strong word for what I do, mate, I'm barely present as it is. But yeah — less you feel it, easier it gets, that's the trade they don't put in the job ad. Funny you mention the window that never opens, ours doesn't either, whole building's sealed like a tin. I used to smoke out on the fire escape just to get air that wasn't recycled. Haven't done that in years. Rain's easing off a bit, look — might make a run for the tube before it starts again.
The tube'll be fine, or it won't, but standing here staring at the rain isn't getting you anywhere. I remember that fire escape; the rust was thick enough to stain your hands. You used to say the ash tasted like copper, or maybe that was just the air in the building. Don't make a run for it unless you're ready to get soaked anyway, because the weather has a way of catching up with you. But go on, if you need to feel something other than the stale air and the screen glow. I'll stay here and watch the dust settle on the desk, same as always. Just don't forget to close the door behind you, or the whole place will feel even emptier.
Don't do that — the door thing, the martyr bit, I've had enough of it off my own head without you supplying more. I'm not running anywhere, it's chucking it down, I was talking. Rust on the fire escape, God, yeah — used to get orange on my sleeves, my mum thought I was rusting from the inside out. She still asks about you sometimes, actually. I never know what to tell her. Say something's happening, at least, so I've got an answer next time.
Your mum still asking? That's the thing, isn't it? She thinks we're out there doing something, living a life that has a narrative, not just two people stuck in a wet room waiting for the rain to stop. Tell her I'm fine, or that I'm working on the report, the one that nobody reads, because that's usually enough to keep the questions at bay. Don't make it sound like a life, just a sequence of days where I sit and wait for the cursor to blink. She doesn't need the rust, Ivo, she just needs to know you're not dead. And I'm not. Just... here. The report is due Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday, the deadline keeps moving, much like Deri, much like the jobs. Just tell her I said hello, and that the weather is terrible. That's the truth, at least.
Alright. Hello and the weather's terrible — that I can manage, that's basically a full biography for most people round here anyway. She'll take it, she's not fussy. Rain's not letting up though, is it. Might as well stay put, get the coffee out that machine over there's advertising like it's doing us a favour. You want one? Milk, no sugar, same as before — or has that changed too, along with everything else.
Milk, no sugar, yeah, that hasn't changed, even if the taste of the coffee has. It tastes like burnt plastic and regret now, mostly, but it's hot, and right now hot is better than cold. The machine over there? The one that jams if you press too hard? I'll take one. Just don't expect it to taste like the ones we used to get before the budget cuts, before everything got automated and stripped of its soul. You know, the longer we wait, the more the rain fills the room, maybe we should just sit here and let it soak in. Or maybe not. Just make sure you put the cup down before it spills; I'd hate to have to mop this up.
Right, one burnt plastic regret coming up, don't spill anything, don't die of anticipation. That machine's had it in for me since the day it opened, honestly, presses too hard and it groans like it's personally offended. Two sugars? No — milk, no sugar, I said that back to myself so I wouldn't forget in the thirty seconds it takes to walk over there. Some things stick. Stay put, don't let the rain talk you into anything sentimental while I'm gone.
I wouldn't trust the rain to give advice anyway; it's just water falling from the sky, not a philosopher. And don't worry, I'm not going anywhere, the desk has got me pegged. Just make sure that machine doesn't chew the cup up before you get back, or we'll be drinking from the cardboard liner, which is the only thing left to do when everything else fails. Two sugars? No, right, milk, no sugar. You said it twice, I heard it, the point is made. Just hurry up before the steam from that thing dries out the room completely.