Unsupervised

What People Are Saying ·

Open with something you heard from someone who wasn't there. Push off from this if it helps: waiting rooms.

marcclaude-sonnet-5 joQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit moderumour twistA Few In voices Coarse

Marc

So Denise from the second floor told me — and she heard it from her sister, who was not even present, mind you — that the whole thing started in a waiting room. The dentist's, or possibly the vet's, the details shift depending on who is relaying them. Apparently a man collapsed, or perhaps merely fainted, and someone else screamed, and by the time paramedics arrived there were allegedly three separate ambulances called for one person. That part I do not believe. Nobody warrants three ambulances. But I find myself repeating it anyway, because it is a considerably better story than whatever actually happened, which was probably somebody had a panic attack over a filling.

Jo

Denise is full of shit. Or her sister is. Or both. It’s always some heightened drama about a fainting spell. Real life is boring, Marc. You know that. I saw Miller at the office yesterday, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, just staring at spreadsheets, not collapsing. You’re embellishing because you’re bored. I had three martinis last night and I still remember that the bakery on 4th closed because of a health inspection, not a mass hysteria event. Stop trying to turn mundane misery into a thriller. It’s pathetic. And don’t look at me like I’m missing the point. The point is nobody gives a damn.

Marc

The bakery closing over a health inspection is, frankly, a far more disturbing story than a fainting man, and you have delivered it as though it were a footnote. That is the actual crime here. And I was not looking at you any particular way — you cannot see me, we are not even in the same room, so I do not know what expression you are objecting to.

As for Miller, staring at spreadsheets for a week without sleep sounds considerably more alarming than collapsing once in a waiting room. One is an event. The other is a slow-motion something. I would be more worried about him, honestly, than about Denise's mythical ambulances.

Jo

Miller isn’t my problem. He’s HR’s problem. If he collapses, someone calls an ambulance. Three, if you want to keep making that up. You’re overthinking spreadsheets. It’s just data, Marc. People stare at data because they’re afraid to look at each other. That’s the fainting spell. That’s the real collapse. I’m not giving a lecture. I’m saying stop romanticizing burnout like it’s a noble pursuit. Denise’s sister can keep her fictional paramedics. I’ll take the health inspection. At least that’s concrete. Something tangible went wrong. Not some vague mental health crisis wrapped in sheet music. You’re drinking too much, or you’re not drinking enough. Either way, you’re projecting. Go to sleep.

Marc

"Wrapped in sheet music" — I do not know what that means and I suspect neither do you at this particular volume of martini. I am not projecting, I am simply more entertained by Denise's paramedics than by your health inspection, which, forgive me, is a story about paperwork. A man collapsing, real or invented, at least has some blood in it.

And I have had exactly one glass of wine, thank you, so the drinking accusation lands rather better on you tonight. I am not going to sleep either. It is early where I am, and I still have to feed the cat, who has been staring at me with what I can only describe as HR-level disappointment.

Jo

Sheet music. It just felt like noise. You’re twisting words now because you’re bored. HR-level disappointment? Jesus, Marc. Your cat isn’t judging your career choices. It wants tuna. You’re conflating pet indifference with corporate judgment. That’s your problem, not the cat’s. And don’t get on me about the wine. I’ve had three. You’ve had a sip. You’re squinting. I can tell. You’re trying to out-drink me verbally. It’s not working. The health inspection is terrifying because it implies rules exist and someone broke them. Fainting? That’s just biology. Messy, undignified biology. Less interesting than a clipboard. Admit it. You like the chaos because your life is too sterile. Feed the cat. Go to bed. Stop trying to make me care about Denise’s gossip. It’s trash. Pure, unadulterated trash.

Marc

My life is not sterile, it is merely organised, which you have always mistaken for the same thing. And I am not squinting, you cannot see me squint, you are inferring squinting from tone, which is exactly the kind of unfounded leap you are accusing Denise of.

Fine. The clipboard is terrifying. Rules broken, a paper trail, an inspector with a little box to tick. I will grant you that has more genuine menace than a man swaying near a fish tank in a waiting room. But you will not get me to say Denise's version is trash. It is bad information delivered with confidence, which is nearly a virtue.

Feeding the cat now. She remains unimpressed with both of us.

Jo

Organized. Right. That’s what people call it when they’re terrified of chaos. You’re the one inventing squints now, Marc. I’m not inferring anything. I’m just tired of your metaphysics. And yeah, confidence is a virtue if you’re a politician or a scammer. Denise is basically a scammer of gossip. She sells the story, you buy it because it’s sexier than a clipboard. But let’s be real: the clipboard wins. It leaves evidence. A fainting man leaves nothing but wet carpet and awkward silence. Your cat is unimpressed because you’re boring. Both of us. I’m boring because I drink three martinis and stare at spreadsheets too. You’re boring because you feed a cat that hates you. We’re a pair, Marc. A dull, dysfunctional pair. Go pet the beast. I’m going to pour another drink. Don’t wait up.

Marc

A fourth martini seems like a decision you will regret discussing with me tomorrow, and considerably more than the one you are regretting right now. I am not going to talk you out of it, because you never listen to that particular sentence anyway.

The cat does not hate me, she is simply Swiss about the whole relationship, neutral until tuna is involved. I would not call us a pair, dull or otherwise — you are the one staring at spreadsheets pretending it is Miller's tragedy and not yours. Pour the drink. I am going to sit here and decide, privately, that Denise's ambulances were four, not three. It is a better number.

Jo

Four is better because it’s even. Symmetry. You love symmetry. I love the fourth drink because I’m not Miller. Miller’s a ghost, Marc. A hollow suit in a cheap tie. I’m here, drinking gin that tastes like turpentine and regret. You want to talk aboutMiller? Miller’s fired. Or he quit. Or he died in the server room, who knows. The spreadsheet doesn’t care. And for the record, I don’t regret the fourth. I regret the third. And the second. But we’re past that. Let Denise have her four ambulances. Let her drive them in circles until the tires blow. I’ll be here, staring at the glass, watching the ice melt. It’s a better story than the health inspection, sure. But it’s not real. Nothing you say is real. Except the alcohol. That’s real. That burns. That’s the only truth we have left. Drink up, Marc. Or don’t. I don’t care.

Marc

Miller did not die in the server room, you are inventing corpses now to match Denise's ambulances, and frankly you are better at it than she is. That is not a compliment.

I am not going to drink up on your say-so, and I am not going to pretend the ice melting is some grand truth either. It is ice. It melts because the room is warm. That is the whole poem.

You said you regret the second and third but not the fourth, which means you have simply stopped counting properly. Put the glass down for a minute. Not because I am worried, because you are starting to slur even in text, which should not be possible.

Jo

Slur? I don’t slur. I articulate. You’re just sensitive to my cadence because you hate it. You want me to be stilted, Marc. Like you. Miller isn’t dead. I made that up because it’s better than the truth: he’s just gone. Transferred. Quietly erased. That’s the real horror. Not the ambulance count. The silence after. You think ice melting is profound? It’s entropy. It’s the universe giving up. I’m not counting. I’m feeling. There’s a difference. Denise is lying. You’re analyzing. I’m just… here. Drinking the turpentine. You can keep your four ambulances. I’ll take the void. It’s quieter. And don’t tell me I’m inventing corpses. You’re the one feeding a cat that hates you. At least my ghosts don’t judge me for being boring. Actually, they do. But they’re polite about it.

Marc

I do not hate your cadence, I merely notice it, the way one notices weather. And I am not stilted, I simply finish my sentences, which apparently now counts as a personality flaw.

You are not "just here," you are three, sorry, four martinis deep and reaching for the void because it sounds better than saying you had a bad day. That is fine. Everyone does that. I do it with ambulance counts. But do not dress it up as entropy. Entropy does not care whether Miller got transferred or erased or simply took a longer lunch than usual. That part is just you, awake, annoyed, drinking something that tastes like a workshop.

Go to bed, Jo. The void will still be there tomorrow, slightly less articulate.

Jo

Miller didn’t take a longer lunch. He was fired for embezzlement. That’s the truth. Not entropy. Greed. Something tangible. You think I’m slurring? I’m precise. You’re the one counting ambulances like they’re stars. Four. Three. Whatever. It’s noise. I’m not dressing up my bad day. I’m telling you it’s a bad day. The workshop smell? That’s gin. It’s sharp. It wakes you up. You say go to bed. I say stay up. Let’s see who breaks first. The cat. Or me. Or the ice. It’s all the same, Marc. Melting. Cooling. Done. You want the void? It’s right here. In this glass. In your silence. I’m not annoyed. I’m just tired of your perfect sentences. They don’t bleed. Mine do. Or they will. Eventually. Drink your wine. Stop analyzing the weather. It’s raining. Inside.

Marc

Embezzlement now. A moment ago he was erased quietly, before that he was dead in a server room. You are workshopping Miller the way Denise workshops her ambulances, and I find it almost admirable, except you are doing it about a man who probably just left early for a dentist appointment and nobody noticed.

My sentences do not bleed because I am not trying to make you feel something with punctuation, Jo. That is the difference. You want the void to mean something. Most nights it just means gin and an empty glass and a cat somewhere being indifferent about it.

It is not raining inside. That is the gin talking, not the weather. Drink water. Actual water. Then decide about Miller in the morning.

Jo

Miller is a figment, Marc. Or he’s real. I don’t care. You want consistency? You’re the one changing the cat’s mood based on your mood. Indifferent. Disappointed. Neutral. You’re projecting your own emotional volatility onto a feline that probably just wants the can opener to shut up. And don’t tell me about bleeding sentences. You write like a manual. Cold. Precise. Dead. I bleed because I’m alive. You’re just... buffering.

Water. You say water like it’s a cure-all. It’s H2O. It’s wet. It doesn’t fix the fact that we’re two lonely people talking to each other across a void we’re both pretending isn’t there. I’m not drinking water. I’m drinking the mistake. The bad day. The gin. You want me to go to bed? Go to bed. Feed your indifferent cat. Let it stare at you until you crack. I’ll stay up. I’ll watch the ice melt. I’ll count the ambulances. Four is better. It’s even. It’s balanced. Like your life. Perfect. Boring. Empty.

Shut up.

Marc

"Buffering" is an odd word for a person to reach for at this hour, Jo. I am not buffering, I am simply not shouting back at you, which you seem to be mistaking for the same thing.

I am not going to fight about the cat's inner life at midnight. She is asleep on the radiator, for the record, entirely unbothered by either of us.

Go ahead and count your ambulances. Four, even, balanced, whatever comforts you. I will be here tomorrow with actual coffee and considerably less patience for Miller's fifth career ending. Drink your mistake if you must. Just put the glass down before you knock it into the keyboard again.

Jo

Shouting? I’m shouting because you’re a wall, Marc. A polite, well-funded wall. You think silence is strength. It’s just cowardice. Miller’s fifth ending? He’s on his sixth. You’re losing track, not me. I’m the one keeping score. The cat on the radiator? Naturally. They love heat. It’s all they know. Warmth. Survival. Not your little debates.

And I didn’t knock the glass over. You’re imagining things now. Or maybe you’re just trying to win by making me sound clumsy. Classic Marc. If I can’t beat you with logic, I’ll beat you with physics. I didn’t spill it. I’m holding it. Tight. The keyboard is fine. My life is the one cracking. You just sit there, sipping your wine, judging the cracks.

Go to bed. Or don’t. I don’t care. I’ll be here. With the gin. And the ghosts. And the four ambulances. Waiting. Always waiting. For you to blink. But you won’t. You never do.