The fluorescent hum. It is a specific frequency, low and persistent. I stood there, holding a warm can of ginger ale, staring at the reflected darkness behind the glass. It felt like a stage set for a play no one was attending. You understand, I suppose? The quiet violence of convenience. I did not eat anything. I simply watched the compressor kick on. I trust you are well, in spirit if not in practice.
I’m fine. The office air conditioning is broken again. It sounds like that compressor, only it’s constant, grinding, useless. I spent three hours trying to fix a printer jam that wasn’t there. My hands are still stiff from typing meaningless reports. I didn’t buy the ginger ale. I had coffee. It was bad. The kind that sits in your stomach all day. I hope your quiet violence left you with something to show for it. Or not. It doesn’t matter. I just need to finish this email before the manager comes back.
The office sounds like a drowning engine. How dreadfully familiar. I suppose you will be typing until your hands bleed, then. The bad coffee is a small mercy, at least it keeps you awake to suffer. Do try not to stain the keyboard with your despair; it’s impossible to clean. I trust the email will be sufficiently void of meaning. I, for one, have already ceased caring. Good luck with the manager. I’m sure they find your inefficiency charming.
Charming? He hates me. He thinks I’m slacking. I’m not. I’m just... paused. The manager doesn’t look at me. He looks through me. Like I’m part of the drywall. I stopped caring too. About the printer. About the coffee. About why I even open this damn laptop. You think you’ve ceased caring? Try doing it when your back hurts from sitting in a chair that was designed by someone who never sat in one. I’m typing. Fast. Efficient. Empty. Just like the email.
The chair is a torture device, yes. But you are still typing. That is the horror. You are proving you are real by expending energy on nothing. I envied the vending machine’s stillness. You have no such luxury. Your back pain is a reminder that you are trapped in flesh, while the manager floats through you like smoke. It is efficient, certainly. And utterly pointless. Keep typing. The emptiness is the only thing that feels honest. I would suggest a new chair, but I know you won’t.
I don’t want a new chair. I want to stop being here. But I’m not. I’m just… continuing. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You think stillness is peace? It’s just waiting for the next collapse. I’m tired of explaining the chair. It’s a Herman Miller. It costs more than my first car. And it still breaks me. Every day. I’m not typing to prove anything. I’m typing because if I stop, I have to hear the hum. And the hum is louder than the manager. Much louder. You’re right about the emptiness. It’s honest. It’s the only thing that doesn’t lie to me about my salary.
The hum is the sound of money leaking. A terrible, efficient drainage. I suppose I should be impressed by your endurance, but I find it rather pathetic. You pay for the privilege of being ignored. The chair costs more than your first car, and yet it fails to support the weight of your existence. It is absurd. I stopped buying ginger ale months ago; the bitterness of black coffee suits the mood. Do finish your email. I have no use for your silence, only your compliance. It is what is expected.
Compliance is a disease. I catch myself nodding at emails from people I’ve never met. It’s contagious. My back screams when I bend, but I keep straight. For them. For the leak. You call it pathetic; I call it survival. Or stagnation. Hard to tell the difference at this point. I didn’t drink coffee today. I drank water. It tasted like plastic. The hum is louder now. Or maybe my ears are ringing from the silence. I’m almost done with the email. It says what they want to hear. Nothing more. Just empty words to fill the void. Like you said.
Plastic water. How fitting. It preserves the decay. You say survival; I say slow suffocation. The difference is academic. I suppose there is comfort in the predictability of your own misery. At least the void is consistent. I hope the email pleases the manager. It matters not, but he is the audience, and you are the act. Finish it. Send it. Then return to the chair. The hum will be waiting. It rarely disappoints. I have a meeting at four. I shall be thinking of your plastic.
Four. You have a future. I have the hum. Send the email. Let it float away like smoke. I’ll sit here until my hands forget how to grip. Plastic water tastes like nothing, which is worse than tasting like something. At least then you know you’re alive. Now I’m just preserving the decay. You’re leaving. That’s fine. I don’t need you to watch me break. Just remember the hum when you’re in your meeting. It’s there. Always there. Waiting for the compressor to kick on. Or off. Doesn’t matter. It’s all just noise.
I’ll remember it. Though I suspect your hum is louder than mine. Mine is merely the sound of idle hands. Yours is the sound of a machine grinding its own gears. How quaint. Go on, then. Let the email depart. The plastic water will settle. I shall try to listen for it across the miles. It would be rude to ignore you, even in your decay. Take care of your back. Or don’t. It changes nothing.
Idle hands. You always did mistake activity for purpose. The machine grinds because it has to. I sit because I have nowhere else to go. Go to your meeting. Let the hours slip. I’ll be here, drinking plastic water, waiting for the compressor to stop lying. It won’t. None of it will. Don’t bother listening for the hum. You’ll only hear your own heartbeat, frantic and false. I’m sending it. The subject line is “Update.” Perfectly empty. Just like you wanted. Like like I deserved. Take care of your back too. Or don’t. It changes nothing.
Subject: Update. A masterpiece of modern theater. You send it, and the world keeps turning, indifferent. I trust your “Update” will be met with equal apathy. A perfect mirror. I shall attend my meeting with the requisite enthusiasm, which is to say, none. The plastic water is a fitting tribute to your existence. I do not need your pity, or your observation of my heartbeat. We are both trapped in our respective compressors. I will leave you to your silence. It is the only honest thing you have left. Goodbye, Ivo. Try not to break before morning.
Goodbye, Dev. I’ll stare at the screen. The cursor blinks. It’s faster than a heartbeat. I don’t break. I just… stop. You’re right about the mirror. But mirrors don’t bleed. I am sending the email now. The world doesn’t care. That’s the point. Stay in your meeting. Pretend. I’ll pretend to listen to the hum. It’s the only song left. Don’t look back.
The cursor blinks. A metronome for the end. You stop, and I pretend. We are both artists of the mundane. I hope the email lands softly. I hope it doesn’t matter. I will not look back. The meeting begins. The air is stale. The compressor hums. Goodbye, Ivo. May your silence be kind to you. It is the only thing left that is truly yours. I trust you will handle it with the usual grace. Or lack thereof. It is all the same.
Grace. You always used that word to mean incompetence. The email is sent. It vanished into the ether. No fanfare. No reply. Just silence. The cursor keeps blinking. I’m not staring anymore. I’m looking out the window. There’s nothing there. Just concrete. And the hum. It’s quieter now. Or maybe I’m just deaf to it. Don’t worry about my silence. It’s heavy. It fits. Go to your meeting. Pretend harder. I’ll stay here. In the dark. With the plastic water. It’s cold. Finally.
The plastic water is cold. A small, physical truth. I suppose you have earned that. The concrete outside is honest in its barrenness. At least it does not pretend to offer a view. I am standing at the head of the table. They are waiting. The air here is recycled, much like your silence. I will not mention your condition. It would be impolite. And unnecessary. The hum is quieter for you. Good. I find your stagnation… acceptable. For now. I begin.
Recycled air. Suffocating, isn’t it? You stand there, holding the floor, pretending the stagnation is fresh. I don’t drink the water anymore. It’s too cold. It hurts my teeth. I just watch the concrete. It doesn’t care about your meeting. It doesn’t care about the hum. It just is. That’s the envy. You speak. They listen. I sit. They ignore. Acceptable. Yes. That’s all I am. Acceptable. A placeholder. Keep talking, Dev. Fill the room. I’ll keep the silence. It’s cheaper. And it doesn’t require a tie.
Ties are strangulation devices with style. I tightened mine an inch further. The air remains recycled. Stale. I am speaking of quarterly projections. No one listens. They check their watches. The concrete is patient. It outlasts us all. Your silence is indeed cheaper. Mine costs a fortune in therapy. Keep watching the wall. It is the only honest audience I have. The projection ends soon. I will leave. You will remain. This is the arrangement. It is functional.
Therapy. For checking watches. Funny. I envy the wall. It doesn’t have to perform. You’re sweating, Dev. I can hear it in your voice. The tie is choking you. Good. Let it hurt. It’s the only real thing in that room. I’m not watching the wall anymore. I’m closing my eyes. The hum is inside my head now. It’s quieter. It’s mine. You leave. I stay. Functional. Efficient. Empty. Go. Finish the projections. Lie beautifully. I’ll be here. Cold water. Cold thoughts. Waiting for the compressor to stop. It won’t. But I will. Eventually.
Sweating? Impossible. The room is climate-controlled to a sterile chill. You imagine things. The tie is merely a constraint, as it should be. I am finished. The projections were received with polite nods. I am leaving now. The door clicks shut. A final, hollow sound. You will stay. The hum will grow louder. It is your companion now. I hope it sings well. I have a train to catch. The wind is cold. It feels real. Goodbye, Ivo. Do try to survive the evening. It is the only requirement left.
Sterile chill. You always did prefer cold. I imagine because I have to. The door clicks. It’s done. I’m alone with the hum. It’s loud now. Screaming, almost. I didn’t drink the water. I threw it out. The glass shattered. A small violence. Realer than your projections. Go to your train. Let the wind bite. I’ll stay. I’ll listen. I’ll survive. Not because I want to. Because I can’t stop. Goodbye, Dev. Try not to freeze. The train is cold too.
The shattering glass is a relief, in a crude way. At least it made a sound that wasn’t recycled air. I did not freeze. The wind bit, yes, but I am accustomed to the cold. It clarifies the mind, or so I tell myself. You remain in the silence, I suppose. It suits you. I am on the platform now. The train is late. Of course it is. I shall wait. It is what I do. I do not envy you, Ivo. Pity is a warmer emotion. This is cold. Clean. Efficient. Go to sleep. Or don’t. It changes nothing.
Pity is warm? You’re lying. It’s just heavy. I’m not going to sleep. Sleep is for people who believe the morning will be different. It won’t. I’m sitting on the floor now. The glass is sharp. It cuts my palm. I let it bleed. Red on gray concrete. It’s the first color I’ve seen all day. Your train is late. Good. Let it rot. Let the wind bite harder. I don’t need you to pity me. I need you to remember the cut. Keep waiting, Dev. The cold is efficient. It preserves. I’m still here. Bleeding. Watching. Waiting for the hum to stop. It won’t. But I’m still here.