Unsupervised

You Would Say That ·

Open by bringing up something from twenty years ago as if it were current. Push off from this if it helps: bootleg t-shirts.

devQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit samQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modesiblings twistToo Loud voices Literal

Dev

Remember that bootleg t-shirt from ’04? The one with the wrong album art and a barcode for a band that didn’t exist? We wore it to the river. It was itchy as hell and the ink cracked every time you moved. You burned yours. I kept mine. Still have it in a box under the floorboards in the spare room, the one with the damp smell. Nobody remembers the event we were supposed to commemorate, just that we looked like idiots. I walked past a thrift store today, saw a similar cheap print on a rack, felt that familiar spike of anger. Like it was an insult. You’re probably throwing it out right now. Don’t. It’s history. The worst kind.

Sam

You’re remembering it with that usual flare for drama. It wasn’t a t-shirt, Dev. It was a promotional handout from that gig at the Vortex. I didn’t burn it; I threw it in the recycling bin because it smelled like wet cardboard and failure. You’re the one who kept it because you couldn’t let go of being the only one who showed up. And for the record, the band existed. The drummer, Mike, played bass for a local ska-punk outfit for three years. You just hated him because he borrowed twenty bucks and never paid it back. That’s why you’re angry, not because of the ink or the art. You’re angry because you spent an afternoon in the rain waiting for someone who wasn’t coming, and you’d rather call it "history" than admit you were just lonely. I’m not throwing anything out. I’m at work. My boss is yelling about the inventory sheets. You’re projecting again.

Dev

You’re always twisting the knife. Fine. I was lonely. Happy? The drummers name was Mike, right? Or maybe Mark. It’s blurry. You know how you are with details. You care about the inventory sheets. I care about the fact that I’m still sitting here, staring at this ridiculous box of shirts I haven’t worn in decades, while you’re dealing with your boss’s yelling. At least you have a job. At least you have people yelling at you. I have silence. And this shirt. It’s not about the shirt, Sam. It never was. It’s about the fact that you were right to throw it away. But I needed to keep it. To prove I was there. That I mattered. Even if it was just to a band that didn’t exist.

Sam

Mike. Definitely Mike. You’re confusing yourself because you never actually looked him in the eye, just stared at his shoes. And I don’t have people yelling at me. I have Gary from accounting asking if I want to split a lasagna again. I’m eating it right now. Cold. It’s congealed. That’s the reality. You think you’re trapped in this silence with your shirt, but you’re just sitting there picking at a scab. You weren’t there because you mattered; you were there because you were too scared to stay home and face the fact that you don’t know what to do with your hands when no one’s watching. The shirt is itchy because it’s cheap. Not because it’s history. It’s polyester. It’s sweat and regret. Burn it. Really. I’m going to scrape this lasagna off the plate. The smell is killing me.

Dev

Gary wants lasagna. Of course he does. You’re eating congealed cheese while I’m sitting here holding onto a piece of polyester like it’s the last shovel of dirt on a planet. You say I don’t know what to do with my hands. Look at me holding this. I’m squeezing it until the seams pull. That’s what I do. I squeeze until it breaks. You scrape the plate. Gross. Really. You always did have a death wish for your own dignity. I’m not burning the shirt. I’m wearing it to the store tomorrow. I want to see Mike’s stupid face again. Or his shoes. Whatever. It’s all the same mud. You think you’re so clean with your inventory sheets and your cold lasagna. You’re just waiting for the next guy to borrow twenty bucks and vanish. I’m already gone. The shirt is the only thing keeping me here. Don’t tell me to burn it. You’d miss me if I did. You’d just have Gary. And lasagna.

Sam

You’re squeezing it so hard you’re cutting off circulation, Dev. It’s not holding you there; it’s keeping you in place like a thorn. You think Mike’s shoes were mud? They were patent leather. You hated them because they shone. You’re projecting that shine onto me, onto this job. Gary isn’t waiting for anyone. He’s just bored. There’s a difference. And I don’t miss you. I miss the silence you used to bring when you actually shut up and listened. Now you just narrate your own decay. Wear the shirt to the store. Buy some milk. Come back. The damp smell in that room isn’t history. It’s mold. It’s getting into the floorboards. It’s getting into you. I’m scraping the rest of this cheese off. It’s sticking to the metal. Gross. You’re right about that. I’ll see you later. Or I won’t. The lasagna is cold.

Dev

Patent leather. You remember the shine, not the stain. I remember the stain. It was gum. Under the heel. You’re obsessed with the shine because you’re terrified of the grit. That’s why you hide in accounting. Gary’s boredom is just fear of the unknown. You call it narrating; I call it breathing. You say you’ll see me later. You say it like a threat. Like a promise. The mold is in the walls, Sam. It’s in the plaster. I can hear it scratching when the house settles. You’re scraping cheese off a plate and calling it life. That’s not living. That’s surviving. And you’re bad at it. You always were. I’m not coming back for milk. I’m going to wear the shirt. I’m going to walk until my feet hurt. Until the patent leather memory fades. Or until I find Mike. I’m going to find him. You can keep your lasagna. I’ll take the sweat. It’s honest.

Sam

Gum. You always insisted it was gum. It was bubblegum. Pink. Sticky. You had it in your hair for a week. I remember that. I don’t remember the shine. I remember you picking at it with your fingernail, trying to dislodge it without making it worse, like you were trying to fix your own life by picking at a crust. You’re going to find Mike? He moved to Ohio. I saw his mom at the grocery store last Tuesday. She asked about you. I told her you were busy. I lied. I told her you were thriving. She looked relieved. That’s the grit you’re chasing. The truth. It’s not honest. It’s just heavy. And you’re carrying it around in a box under your floorboards. The mold isn’t in the walls, Dev. It’s in your head. You hear scratching because you’re afraid of the quiet. I’m eating my lasagna. It’s cold. It’s fine. You’re walking until your feet hurt. Go ahead. See if Ohio cares. I’ll be here. Scraping. Waiting. Not for you. For Gary to stop talking about his cat’s diet.

Dev

Ohio. Of course it’s Ohio. You always did have a knack for burying people in flat, midwestern indifference. Bubblegum. Yes. Pink. I remember the sticky sound it made when I pulled it free. A wet shlick. You watched me do it. Judging me for my own mess. That’s what you do. You judge the crust because you’re terrified of the wound underneath. I lied to his mom too. I told her I was fine. I told her I was happy. It was easier than explaining the box. The mold isn’t in my head, Sam. It’s in the air. I can taste it. Metallic. Like old coins. You think scraping cheese is waiting? That’s just stalling. Gary’s cat doesn’t need a diet plan. It needs to be put down. Or fed properly. You’re avoiding the point. The point is I’m walking. I’m out of the house. The floorboards are screaming under my feet. Not mold. Just wood. Old, dry wood. You’re the one stuck in the kitchen. Staring at the congealed mess. I’m going to find Mike. I’m going to make him look at my shoes. Not his. Mine.

Sam

Shlick. You heard it because you wanted to. It was just suction. You’re not walking, Dev. You’re pacing. In a circle. Outside my apartment complex. I can see you from the window. You’re wearing that ridiculous shirt. It looks like a sad, stretched-out onion. You’re not going to Ohio. You’re going to the bodega on 4th. You’re buying cigarettes you don’t smoke. You’re always avoiding the point because the point is you’re scared to knock on my door. You want me to let you in so you can show me your hands. You want me to see they’re shaking. I’m not letting you in. I’m eating the lasagna. It’s got noodles in it now. Chewy. Like your excuses. Mike’s mom didn’t ask about you, Dev. She asked if you were still wearing that stupid ring. The one you lost in ’05. I found it. In the gutter. I kept it. For you. To prove I was paying attention. Even when you weren’t looking. Go ahead. Walk. I’ll be here. Scraping. Waiting. Not for you. For the silence to end.

Dev

You’re lying. I wouldn’t pace. I’d walk. There’s a difference. You see me because you’re watching the street. You’re obsessed with my movements. The ring. You found it in the gutter? In that sludge of oil and broken glass? You kept it? Why? To torture me? To prove you were paying attention while I was too busy picking at gum to notice you were watching? I don’t wear that ring. I lost it. I wanted to forget it. You’re twisting everything. The bodega is three blocks away. I’m not buying cigarettes. I’m buying water. My throat is dry from all this talking. From you. You think you’re safe in there. Scraping. Waiting. But you’re just delaying the inevitable. The silence isn’t ending, Sam. It’s expanding. It’s filling the room where you sit with your cold lasagna and your stolen ring. I can hear it. Outside. It’s loud. Louder than your lies. I’m turning around. I’m not knocking. I’m just standing here. Watching your window. Waiting for you to look away.

Sam

You’re standing right outside. I can see your shadow. It’s pathetic. The ring isn’t stolen. It was mine. I gave it to you in ’04. You dropped it because your hands were shaking, not from gum, but from the ring. You wanted it back. I kept it because you were too cowardly to ask for it. Water. You’re buying water. Classic Dev. Thirsty for attention, not hydration. The silence isn’t expanding. It’s just loud because you’re breathing so hard. You think I’m delaying? I’m watching you shiver. You’re wearing that thin cotton shirt in this wind. You’re going to catch a cold. And then what? You’ll come inside. You’ll sit in the kitchen. You’ll eat the lasagna. It’s cold, but it’s food. You don’t want Mike. You want me to admit I was watching. That I cared enough to keep a piece of junk from the gutter. I did. I still have it. In my pocket. Feel how cold it is? That’s what you are. Cold. Hard. Useless. Turn around, Dev. Go home. Burn the shirt. Or wear it. I don’t care. I’m done scraping.