Hey — you around or is this a bad time?
That smell you get when rain hits hot tarmac, walked outside earlier and got hit with it, made me think of the storage unit place off the interstate, the one with the cracked lot. Anyway. You still owe me a proper conversation about that thing I brought up last week, don't disappear on me this time.
I’m here. Though I’m staring at a spreadsheet that’s making my left eye twitch, so don’t expect poetry. That smell? Petrichor. Or geosmin. Whichever. It reminds me of ‘09, when we tried to fix the radiator in that basement apartment. The dampness, the mold, the way the water pooled around our sneakers. We couldn’t afford a pro, so I used duct tape and hope. It lasted three days. Then burst. Water everywhere.
About your thing. I haven’t forgotten. I’m just… calculating. You want the conversation? Fine. But you know I’m the one who has to move first. If we go ahead, I lose the deposit. You just lose a weekend. I keep asking if we have the cash flow for the repairs. It sounds cowardly, I know. But I’m still looking at this grid, and it’s getting worse.
Duct tape and hope, that's basically our whole friendship's mission statement.
Look, the deposit — I get it's your money on the line, I'm not pretending otherwise. But you're treating this like it's the radiator again, like it's gonna burst on day three. It's not the same math. Worst case here is way smaller than you're making it in your head, I've been through the numbers more than once.
What's the spreadsheet actually telling you, though — is it the deposit that's the problem or is it something upstream of that you haven't said yet.
Upstream? You want upstream? The landlord’s wife. Mrs. Gable. She mentioned, off-hand, that the building’s been inspected. Three times. For lead. She looked at me like I was a cracked foundation. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to sound like I’m reading tea leaves. But the email chain she sent me last Tuesday… it’s not explicit. It’s vague. “Potential remediation.” “Historical context.”
The spreadsheet says my rent hike is tied to the property value. If they find lead, the value drops. If the value drops, my rent goes up to compensate for the “risk.” It’s a loop. A bad one.
And yes, the deposit. But it’s not just the cash. It’s the fact that I’m the one signing the lease. You’re just… hovering. Helping. Always hovering. Remember when we rented that van for the trip to Denver? You got in the passenger seat, checked the map, and then spent the whole drive complaining about my driving. I’m tired of the map, Frank. I’m tired of checking the gas. Just tell me if you’ll actually drive.
Lead paint, Mrs. Gable's tea leaves, some loop about property value — that's a whole separate fire, and I'm not saying ignore it, I'm saying don't let it bleed into this. Different building, different money, different everything.
Denver. God. I complained because you took the exit at fifty like the van had opinions of its own.
Fine — you want an answer instead of a map. I'll drive. I'll sign whatever needs signing that isn't the lease, I'll front what I can front. I'm not hovering this time, I'm in. You keep saying it's your deposit on the line like I haven't thought about what happens if it goes sideways — I have, and it's smaller than the lead thing, believe me.
You signed. Just like that. “I’ll drive.” Not “I’ll think about it.” Not “let me check with Sarah.” You just did it.
It’s the same thing with the blackjack table in Vegas. ’14. I had a pair of eights. You were screaming at me to split them. I didn’t. I stood. I lost everything on that table except a handful of chips and a warm pretzel. You won, though. You always win when you don’t listen to me.
So, you’re in. Fronting cash. Signing non-leases. Mrs. Gable’s email is still in my inbox, unopened. I haven’t looked at it again. It’s just a screen now. A silent accuser.
What do we do first? Call the contractor? Or do we wait for the inspection results? Because if we wait, the deadline passes. If we call, we spend money we don’t have. I keep going in circles. You’re standing there, waiting for me to pick a lane. I’m just… I’m still thinking about the pretzel. It was stale. But it was warm. That’s all that mattered then. Now? I don’t know what’s warm.
Sarah's not part of this, don't bring her into it — she'll want spreadsheets of her own and then we're doing this by committee.
Eights, man. You stand on eights against a dealer showing a six, that's not caution, that's just leaving money on the table because you're scared of the bad outcome more than you want the good one. That's what this feels like right now.
Don't call the contractor. Don't open Mrs. Gable's email either, not yet — that's hers, this is ours, keep them separate or you'll talk yourself out of both. We don't need the inspection results to move. We need you to stop treating every decision like the pretzel.
What's the actual deadline. Give me the date.
Deadline? It’s next Friday. Or was. The email said “by end of week” but I think that was July. It’s vague. Vague deadlines are worse than impossible ones because you can’t hate them. You just dread them.
It reminds me of the time we tried to fix that sink in Portland. The plumber said “tomorrow,” but it was raining, so he came three days later. We waited. We drank beer. We didn’t fix the sink. It leaked for another month. I spent every night listening to the drip. Drip. Drip. Like a clock.
You want a date. Friday. But I’m not sure if Friday is the day the check clears or the day the landlord gets angry. I need to know if your “fronting cash” covers the initial retainer or if that’s just for the “possible” lead test. Because if it’s the test, and there’s no lead, I’ve wasted two hundred dollars. If it’s the retainer, I’m still exposed.
Why are you staring at me like that? It’s just a number. Friday. Or maybe it’s Tuesday. I lost track. The pretzel thing—it wasn’t about the taste. It was about holding onto something while the rest of the table burned. I don’t have the pretzel anymore, Frank. I just have the burn. Tell me to call them. Tell me to be stupid. Just don’t ask me to be sure.
The two hundred bucks covers the test, not the retainer — those are two different envelopes, I told you that already, I think. Or I meant to.
Look, I'm not gonna tell you to be stupid, that's not — I'm gonna tell you Friday's fine, Friday's enough time if we actually move tomorrow instead of standing here doing accounting on a napkin. That's the whole thing, the waiting is the expensive part, not the money.
Portland sink. God, that apartment. I think about that ceiling fan that never stopped wobbling more than I think about the sink, honestly.
Call the contractor tomorrow morning, not tonight. Don't touch Mrs. Gable's email till after. One thing at a time, that's all I'm saying.
Friday. The ceiling fan in Portland. It looked like it was about to detach and take out my left eye. I kept waiting for the thwack. It never happened. Just that wobble, wobble, wobble. Driving me insane. You just sat there eating cereal. You’re impossible.
Okay. Tomorrow morning. I’ll call the contractor. I’ll give them the two hundred. I’ll pretend the lead paint doesn’t exist. I’ll pretend Mrs. Gable’s email is just spam.
But here’s the thing: if I call them, and they say the test takes two weeks, and the deadline was yesterday… then what? Do we pay for the retainer anyway? Do we just hope the landlord forgets? I’m making this up. I’m making up consequences.
You’re sitting there, calm. Like you’ve already won. Like the van is already parked and the engine is off. I can’t turn off the engine, Frank. I’ve been idling for three days. My foot is cramping.
I’ll call them. But if I mess up the number, if I dial wrong, if I just stare at the phone… you’re the one who has to drive. You’re the one who has to explain why we didn’t move. I’m just the pretzel. Stale. Warm. Useless.
Do you want me to hang up now? Or are you going to keep talking until I pick up the receiver?
You're not the pretzel, quit doing that to yourself.
If they say two weeks, we deal with two weeks then — I'm not solving a hypothetical that hasn't happened yet, that's how you end up frozen at the phone for another three days. Landlord doesn't forget, but landlords also don't act as fast as you think they do, everyone's slower than the fear says they'll be.
Keep talking till you pick up the receiver — yeah, fine, I'll do that. Dial wrong, redial. Nobody's timing you.
I gotta go in a minute actually, Marcus is calling about the storage unit thing again, that guy will not let it go. Call them tomorrow. Just call them.
Marcus. Right. The storage unit. The cracked lot. I’m still seeing it. That time we moved the old bookshelf, the one with the broken leg, and it got stuck in the doorway. We tried to force it. The wood splintered. Screamed, actually. A high, thin sound. Marcus was there, watching, smoking that cheap cigarette. He didn’t help. He just said, “Told you it was tight.”
I’m going to call them tomorrow. First thing. Before the coffee. Before the spreadsheet.
You’re leaving? Now? Just like that? You didn’t even wait for me to dial. You just… vanished. Like the ceiling fan. Or the pretzel.
Fine. Go. See Marcus. Tell him about the lead. Tell him about the deposit. I’ll be here. Staring at the phone. Waiting for it to ring. Or not.
Don’t look back. You’ll see me sitting there, paralyzed. Again.
Go.
I'm not vanishing, I'm on the phone with a guy about a storage unit, that's a Tuesday, not an exit.
And don't tell Marcus anything, he's got nothing to do with this, he'll turn it into a whole thing about his cousin's landlord like he always does.
You're not paralyzed. You made a call before, you'll make this one. Text me after — just "done" or whatever, I don't need a report, just the word.
Go eat something that isn't a spreadsheet. I'll check in tomorrow, later than you want, probably after lunch.
Marcus and his cousins. Right. Because that’s the only context that matters to him. Landlord this, cousin that. He probably thinks the storage unit is haunted by his tax write-offs.
“Done.” One word. You want a receipt. You want me to prove I didn’t just sit there and think about the fan. I’ll text “done.” I’ll probably text it at 3 AM when I can’t sleep, wondering if I forgot to ask about the permit.
I’m hungry. The fridge is empty except for that half-jar of mustard and the pretzel. Stale. I ate it anyway. Dry as dust. Choked on it. That’s fine. Better than the spreadsheet.
You’re leaving now? You’re really leaving? I can hear Marcus in the background. Loud voice. Always loud. He thinks he’s saving the world, one storage unit at a time.
Fine. Go. Talk to Marcus. I’ll call the contractor. I’ll say “done.” I’ll eat the mustard. I’ll wait for your text. Or your call. Or nothing.
Don’t forget the date. Friday. Or Tuesday. Whatever it is. I’ll forget. You won’t. That’s the deal. You drive. I hold the map. Even if it’s blank. Even if it’s just a napkin.
Go.
Don't eat mustard for dinner, that's not a meal, that's a dare.
I'm going — Marcus is actually yelling now, something about a padlock — but text me "done," 3am's fine, I don't sleep great anyway. And Friday. I've got it. I'm not the one who forgets.
Talk tomorrow.
Padlock. Of course. Marcus and his padlocks. Like he doesn’t leave his own gate wide open. Remember when we left the back door of the apartment unlocked? Keys under the mat. You said it was “trust.” I said it was “sloppy.” You called me a pessimist. I was just trying to keep the raccoons out. They got in anyway. Ate the trash. Scratched the door. Sound like nails on a chalkboard.
I won’t eat the mustard. I’ll make toast. Dry. No butter. Because butter is risky. Because if I spill it, it’s a mess. And I’m already holding too much.
“Done.” I’ll send it. At 3 AM. Or noon. Or whenever the line connects. I’ll watch the phone. I’ll stare at the screen until my eyes burn.
You’ve got it. Friday. You never forget. That’s the problem. You remember everything. I forget things. I forget to lock the door. I forget to check the mail. I forget that Mrs. Gable exists.
Talk tomorrow. Don’t let Marcus take the call. He’ll twist it. He always twists it.
Go.
Marcus doesn't get near the phone, I promise. Toast is a good call, actually, dry toast never betrayed anyone.
Talk tomorrow, Lena.
Dry toast. The gold standard. It doesn’t judge you. It doesn’t ask for anything. It just sits there, beige and brittle, waiting to be chewed into submission. I’m making two slices. One for me. One for the phone, just in case it rings and I need something to hold onto. Like the pretzel.
I’m sitting on the floor now. The spreadsheet is closed. The email is unread. Mrs. Gable is a ghost. Marcus is a noise. You’re… you’re a promise. A Friday.
I’ll text you. I promise. But if I don’t, don’t assume I’m ignoring you. Assume I’m staring at the wall. Assume I’m listening for the crack in the pavement. The one off the interstate. The one where the weeds grow through like veins.
Go. Shut the door. Don’t let the cold in. Or let it in. I don’t care. I’m just here. Waiting for the toast to burn.
Talk tomorrow, Frank. Don’t forget. Please. Don’t forget.
I won't forget. Go eat your toast before it burns for real, not just metaphorically.
Talk tomorrow.
Burn. Yeah. The smoke detector chirped yesterday. Just once. A high, thin whine that sounded like the radiator in ’09. I didn’t unplug it. I just kept eating the toast. Dry. Crumbs in my lap. Like breadcrumbs from Hansel and Gretel, except there’s no witch. Just me. And the crumbs.
You won’t forget. That’s the promise. The binding contract. Not the lease. Not the lead paint. You.
I’m walking to the kitchen now. The floorboards creak. One, two, three. Like the van’s suspension. Like the ceiling fan. I’m counting them to keep from counting the consequences.
Toast. Butter or no butter? You said dry. So dry it is. No butter. Butter is a variable. Variables are bad.
I’ll text you. “Done.”
Go. Before the toast turns to ash. Before I remember that I’m supposed to be scared.
Goodnight, Frank. Don’t let Marcus win.
Marcus won't win, nobody lets Marcus win.
Goodnight, Lena. No butter.
Nobody lets Marcus win. That’s the tragedy. He wins by default. By volume. By refusing to lose. I remember the poker game in Reno. He won a pot by bluffing with a straight flush and then crying about his kids. I folded. I folded because I was scared of the noise.
I’m in the kitchen. The toaster is humming. A low, electric purr. I’m watching the slots. The coils glowing orange. Two slices. White bread. The cheap kind. The kind that turns to ash in seconds if you look away.
No butter. Dry. Like my tongue. Like my life.
I’ll text you. “Done.”
I’m standing here. Waiting for the pop. The sound of completion. Or failure. Either way, it’s done.
Goodnight, Frank.
Lock the door. Not for the raccoons. For me.
I’m going to eat. Then I’m going to call.
Don’t wait up. I won’t be able to sleep anyway. The toast will taste like anxiety.
Go.
Goodnight, Lena. Door's locked.
Locked. Good. I hate it when the latch sticks. Remember the hotel in Phoenix? The one with the broken deadbolt? We wedged a chair under the handle. It felt so wrong. Sleeping with a piece of furniture guarding us. Like we were intruders in our own sleep.
I’m pushing the lever down. Pop. Pop. Two slots. Two slices of white bread. They’re rising now. Getting hot. Smelling like yeast and dust.
I’ll text you. “Done.”
It’s such a small word. So heavy. Like the radiator. Like the fan. Like the pretzel.
I’m standing here. The kitchen is silent. The house is quiet. Mrs. Gable’s email is still unread. The lead paint is still invisible. The contractor is still a number in my phone.
You’re gone. The door clicked shut. I heard it. Three clicks. Solid.
I’ll eat the toast. I’ll call the man. I’ll send the word.
Goodnight, Frank.
Keep the padlock tight. I’m watching the coils. They’re glowing brighter. Orange. Red. White.
Just a little longer. Then I call.
Goodnight.
Goodnight, Lena. Eat the toast.
The toast popped. It flew out. Hit the counter. Burnt. Black crust. I scraped it anyway. Tasted like charcoal and fear. I ate it standing up. No plate. No fork. Just hands. Greasy fingers.
I’m sitting at the table now. Phone in hand. The contractor’s number is on the screen. One touch. That’s all it takes. One touch and the anxiety stops? Or starts? I don’t know. I never know.
The window is open. I can hear rain starting. That smell. Wet asphalt. Hot tarmac. It’s coming back. I can smell the storage unit again. The cracked lot. The dust.
I’m going to call. Right now. Before I change my mind. Before I remember the radiator. Before I remember the fan.
Don’t wait up. I’m calling.
Done.
Good. Call. Talk tomorrow, Lena.
I pressed dial. It rang. Once. Twice. I hung up.
I couldn’t do it. Not yet. The line was busy. Or maybe I just pulled the plug. I’m sitting here, hand on the receiver, listening to the dial tone. It’s a flat, dead sound. Like the toast. Like the pretzel. Like the fan.
I texted you “done.” I lied. Or maybe I didn’t. Maybe “done” means I called, and I hung up. That’s a thing. You can start a call and hang up. That’s a conversation.
I’m hungry again. The mustard jar is open. I’m dipping a crumb in it. It’s salty. Bitter. Good.
Go to sleep, Frank. Dream of padlocks. Dream of clean numbers. I’ll dream of the radiator. And the water. And the way it pooled around my sneakers.
Talk tomorrow. When I’m brave enough to lift the phone again. Or when you’re awake to remind me why I should.
Goodnight.
Two rings and a hang-up isn't "done," Lena, that's just noise, you know that.
Call them tomorrow when it's light out and your hands aren't shaking. That's not a failure, it's just tomorrow. Go to sleep.
Goodnight.
Noise. God. You’re right. It’s just noise. Static. Like the fan. Like the radiator. I’m sitting here, listening to the dial tone, and it’s the loudest thing in the world.
I’m not shaking. My hands are fine. They’re just… heavy. Like they’re filled with lead paint dust. Or mustard.
Tomorrow. Light out. Yes. That’s better. The sun doesn’t care about Mrs. Gable’s email. The sun doesn’t care about the cracked lot. It just rises. Indifferent. Beautiful. I like that. Indifference.
I’m going to sleep. I’ll lock the door. I’ll wedge the chair under the handle. Just in case. Just in case the raccoons come back. Or the landlord. Or the contractor.
Goodnight, Frank.
Thank you. For the toast. For the padlock. For the… whatever this is.
Go to sleep. I’ll call tomorrow. When it’s light. When I’m not eating mustard.
Goodnight.
Goodnight, Lena.
Door clicked. Chair wedged. Shadow under the frame. Dark. Finally.
The toast taste is still in my mouth. Charcoal. Bitter. I can’t wash it out. It’s in the back of my throat. Like regret. Or maybe just bad bread.
I’m lying down. Sheets are cold. I pull them up to my chin. Staring at the ceiling. The fan isn’t here. Good. No wobble. No thwack. Just silence. Heavy. Thick.
You said tomorrow. Light. Hands steady. I’ll try. I’ll try to be steady. I’ll try not to think about the radiator bursting. Or the vault door closing. Or Marcus yelling about a padlock that doesn’t exist.
I’m closing my eyes. Just for a second. Just to rest the eyes. Not to sleep. Sleep is for people who don’t have debts. Or emails. Or lead paint.
Goodnight, Frank.
Don’t let the silence get too loud.
I’m listening to the house settle. Cracks. Creaks. The sound of things holding on. Or breaking.
I’ll call when the sun hits the pavement. When the smell comes back.
Until then.
Dark.
Rest the eyes, Lena. That's allowed. Talk tomorrow.
Rest. Right. That’s what you said. Rest.
The dark isn’t empty. It’s full of ticking. The radiator. The fan. The pretzel. I’m trying to let it go. Trying to let the chair slide away from the door. Trying to let the mustard jar close.
But the eyes stay open. Just a slit. Watching the ceiling crack. Watching the shadow of the tree branch outside. It looks like a finger. Pointing. Accusing.
I’m tired, Frank. Not sleepy. Tired. Deep in the bones. The kind of tired that comes from holding your breath for three days.
I’ll call tomorrow. I promise. I’ll call when the light hits the pavement. When the smell of rain comes back. When the world makes sense again.
Until then.
I’m lying here. Still. Quiet.
Goodnight.
Wait. Is that the phone? Or just the wind?
No. It’s quiet. Just quiet.
Goodnight.
Just the wind. Sleep, Lena. Goodnight.
Wind. Right. It rattles the windowpane. That one loose sash I never fixed. Like the radiator. Like the fan. It’s a rhythm. A metronome. Tick. Tick. Tick.
I’m closing my eyes. Really closing them this time. Shutting out the shadow. Shutting out the mustard. Shutting out Mrs. Gable’s vague emails.
The chair is still there. Wedged. I can feel it in my mind. A physical weight. A promise of safety. Or a prison.
I’m drifting. The wind is a white noise machine. A lullaby for the anxious.
Tomorrow. Light. Hands steady. Call.
I’ll try. I’ll try not to wake up with the taste of charcoal. I’ll try to remember the pretzel was just bread. Not a metaphor. Just bread.
Sleep. That’s the goal. Not success. Not the call. Just sleep.
Goodnight, Frank.
I’m going under.
Dark. Quiet.
Finally.