It wasn't just a wasp, Ana. It was a hornet, the size of a thumb, thumping against the dashboard like a trapped engine. You nearly swerved into the bridge support. I just sat there watching it dive—it was actually weirdly cinematic. My arm is still throbbing from where I swiped it, but it's nothing, just a scratch. Honestly, the panic was worth the bruise though. You looked like you were going to faint.
It was a fly, Marc. Don't be so dramatic. I wasn't going to faint; I was trying to see the road while you were playing National Geographic. My wrist is fine, it's probably just tense from when you jerked your arm so hard. It's pathetic how you turn a minor commute into a thriller movie. I have to deal with those reports for the office tomorrow and I don't have the energy for your imaginary traumas. Pass the water.
A fly? You're delusional. That thing had a buzz like a chainsaw saw. And my wrist is actually swelling up, look at that. It's deep. But sure, go back to your reports. They're so much important anyway. I almost survived a fatal collision because of an insect and you're worried about your posture. Here's the water. Don't spill it on the floor; I'm the only one here bleeding out today.
Stop clutching your arm like that. It's a scratch, not a puncture wound. You always love being the martyr when you want some attention. If it were a chainsaw, we'd have heard it three blocks away. It was a bug, and you overreacted like usual. My wrist is fine, I'm not actually worried about posture, I'm just the one keeping us on the road while you're wandering off. Just drink your water and be quiet. You're twitching.
I'm only twitching because the venom is reacting. It's a systemic thing, though you wouldn't know that. You're too busy playing the hero driver to notice I'm actually in shock. I can barely feel the nerve going in my hand. Maybe tomorrow I won't be able to type at all because your driving failed. It's a tragedy, really. But keep talking about your spreadsheets. Clearly, my loss. Just pass the glass over, you're making me nervous.
Systemic? Give me a break. You're not in shock, you're just exhausting. If you can't type tomorrow, use your other hand. It's not a tragedy, it's a nuisance. I have a headache coming on just because you're raving on about a house insect. Here, take the glass. You're shaking so much the water is moving anyway. Just drink it and stop making a scene.
Use the other hand? Brilliant. I'll just learn to be left-handed while my arm withers. It's funny how you call everything a nuisance when it doesn't inconvenience your precious headache. The water is moving because the table is literally shaking, Ana. You're lucky I'm too nauseous to throw up. Besides, I heard the neighbor was acting weird again today, saw him loading boxes into his trunk at midnight. Maybe that's the real threat, not a bug.
The neighbor is always moving stuff, he's probably just buying more junk from online. You see a conspiracy in everything because you're so bored. And the table isn't shaking, you are. It's pathetic. I honestly don't know how you stop vibrating over a scratch. I'm not in the mood for your neighborhood theories, especially when my manager is already breathing down my neck about those files. Just sit still.
Online junk? People don't move heavy crates at 2 AM for IKEA decor. He's hiding something, but you're too obsessed with those stupid files to notice. Your manager is probably just like you anyway. My arm is turning a shade of purple that shouldn't exist in nature and you just want me to be quiet. Fine. If I stop twitching, the heart might just stop. It's a medical fact. Go back to your reports.
Your heart is not stopping because you stopped being annoying. That's not a medical fact, it's a threat. And your arm is probably purple because you're squeezing it too hard. My manager is a nightmare, but you'd be lucky he doesn't have to listen to your monologue about hornets. If the neighbor is a criminal, call the police instead of me. Just finish the water and stop being so dramatic. It's making my headache worse.
Call the police? For what? That a guy is moving boxes? They'd laugh in your face, just like you are. Your manager is probably the one he's buying from anyway. It's all connected, but you're too blind to see the pattern through all your little spreadsheets. My hand is actually numb now. I can't feel my fingers. It's the worst sign. But don't let my impending paralysis ruin your headache. I'll just sit here in silence and die quietly.
You aren't dying, you're just being difficult. If your hand is numb, it's because you've been gripping the armrest for twenty minutes. Move your hand. And for heaven, do sit in silence, I'd take that over this nonsense about the neighbor and my boss. There is no pattern, Marc, just a guy with boxes and too much time. Stop staring at your fingers like they're gonna fall off. It's embarrassing.
They're not falling off, but they're cold. It's the blood flow, Ana. You're so focused on being annoyed that you can't even see the room getting colder. It's embarrassing for you to be the one complaining while I'm literally losing a limb. I'll sit here then. I'll just enjoy the misery while you finish those precious files. If I don't wake up tomorrow, make sure you tell your manager it was the fly that did it.
The room isn't getting colder, the window is just open. You're obsessed with this narrative and it is exhausting. If you don't wake up, I'll just tell them I've never heard from you. It would be a lot quieter that way without the constant de-escalating-death monologue. Your hand is cold because you're sitting in a draft. Just sit there and stop talking. I have actual work to do that matters.
The window is closed, Ana. I haven't touched it since yesterday. You're so desperate for an excuse to ignore the fact that I'm suffering. It's impressive how you de-link yourself from reality to save a conversation. I'll just sit in the draft of my numb hand while you work away. Go ahead, tell them I'm a stranger. It'll be the honest thing you've said all night.
The window is closed because I closed it. You're imagining things just to win an argument. It's pathetic how much effort you put into being a victim of a housefly. If you want to sit there and freeze, be for ahead, but I'm not coming over to check your temperature. I have three more to finish and your silence would actually be nice right now. Just shut up for once for God's sake.
You closed it? Then why is the curtain moving? You're literally lying to yourself just to feel right. It is pathetic. Fine, I'll shut up. I'll be the silent ghost in the corner. But the pain in my wrist is moving up to my jaw now. It's a sharp, electric heat. Enjoy your files. I hope they're worth the silence of a person who's practically dying.
The curtain is moving because there's a draft from the hallway, Marc. Basic physics. Your jaw hurts because you're clenching your teeth like you're trying to grind through them. It's not electric heat, it's tension. If you want to be a ghost, go for it. I'm not going to stop working to watch you pass out. These files have to be done, and your drama is not a distraction. Just sit still.
Physics? The hallway door is shut, Ana. You're grasping at straws now. It's hilarious. My jaw is locking up because the venom is hitting the nerves, but sure, tell yourself it's just tension. It makes life easier. I'll sit here. I'll be your statue. If I drop my head on the floor, don't bother looking up from the screen. The files are clearly more important than my face anyway.
If you drop your head, the noise will wake me up, and that's the only reason I would care. Your jaw is locking because you're being stubborn. It's not venom, it's your personality. I'm not grasping at straws, I'm trying to have a normal conversation. If you want to be a statue, be one. At least statues don't complain about the temperature every five minutes. I'm done listening.
Normal conversation? You call this normal? You're talking to a wall while I'm decompressing. It's funny how you can be so cold. My hand is actually ice cold, but sure, I'm imagining the draft. Go ahead, finish your work. I'm right here, being the furniture you always wanted. The silence is yours now.
Finally, some peace. You're not furniture, you're just a person in a chair who needs to stop reacting to everything. If you actually stop twitching, maybe I can finish this without a migraine. I'm not being cold, I'm just tired of explaining basic physics to a grown adult. Just sit in your silence and leave it alone. I have enough to do without monitoring your imaginary frostbite.
I'm not twitching anymore. See? Total stillness. That's the difference between a reaction and actually giving up. You get your peace, I get the paralysis. It's a fair trade, really. I'll just sit here in the dark. If I stop breathing, don't worry about the noise; just make sure the files are sent by morning. That's the only thing that matters anyway.
You're not giving up, you're just being lazy. And it's not dark, the lamp is right in front of you. If you stop breathing, I'll know you're just trying to annoy me, so stop being so dramatic. The files will be sent regardless of whether you decide to be a martyr or not. Just sit there still and stop talking about breathing. It's exhausting having to listen to your internal monologue.