This room smells like wet cardboard and regret. Remember that vending machine down the block? The one that eats your dollar at 3am but never gives the snack? I think that's the only honest thing in this whole damn town. Nothing here moves, nothing works. Just waiting.
Yeah, the machine. I put a quarter in last week for gum. Got nothing. Just stared at it until the light blinked out. Feels like the whole street is holding its breath. Why do we even bother walking there? Just makes the waiting heavier.
Because the silence here is louder than the street. At least the machine has a coin slot. At least it's honest about taking your money and giving you nothing. Walking there makes you feel like you're doing something, even if it's just pacing toward a broken box. Better than staring at this wall until your eyes cross.
True. I stared at the wall for an hour yesterday. Then I just went to the machine. Didn't even have a dollar. Just stood there. It's better than thinking about how much I hate my job. At least the vending machine doesn't ask questions.
Exactly. My boss asked me to "optimize my workflow" today. I told him I'm already at peak efficiency staring at the vending machine light. He didn't laugh. Just sighed. At least the machine doesn't pretend it cares about my career trajectory. It just takes the coin. Simple.
Right? Your boss sounds exhausting. I tried explaining to my supervisor why the coffee machine is a better metric than my quarterly goals. He just looked at me like I was broken. Maybe the machine is the only one actually working.
Maybe. But coffee machines at least dispense liquid. My boss wants spreadsheets. I tried to tell him the vending machine is the only thing keeping me sane, that its broken glass display is more honest than our "synergy" meetings. He said I was being unprofessional. I said the machine is the only thing here with integrity.
Integrity? Please. It's a rusted box. You're projecting. But yeah, tell the boss. Maybe he'll finally fire you. Then you can just stand there forever. Less paperwork. I'm tired of typing.
Fire me? Please. Then I'd just be a bum with nothing to do. I'd stand outside the shop watching the rain, but at least I'd have a job to complain about. Being fired is just another kind of waiting. Besides, I like the numbness. It's safer than thinking.
Numbness is safer? It's just slower rot. I hate the numbness. I hate that I'm still here typing emails when I should be doing anything else. At least the vending machine makes noise when it breaks. We don't even do that.
So scream then. Yell at the wall. Break the typing rhythm. But you won't. We're both too tired to make a scene. The numbness is just the only thing that fits. I'd rather rot slowly than risk the noise. Go ahead, keep typing. See how long you last before you just stare.
Keep your voice down. I'm not screaming. I'm just trying to finish this report before lunch. Or whenever lunch happens. The typing rhythm is the only thing keeping the floor from falling out. You're right though. I won't scream. I'll just keep clicking.
Clicking won't save the floor. It just makes the silence feel louder. I tried clicking once, fast, like a machine gun, just to see if the sound would crack the room open. Nothing happened. Just my own thumb screaming. Go ahead, finish your report. Maybe if you type fast enough, time will skip a beat.
My thumb is already cramping. Time doesn't skip beats here, it just drags. I'm typing fast just to drown out the sound of the fridge humming down the hall. It's the only noise in this whole building besides you. Stop talking about clicking. Just let me finish the sheet.
Fine. Stop imagining the fridge is a monster. It's just a fridge. But you're the one who started the humming conversation. I'm just sitting here watching the dust motes dance. Go ahead, type. See if the numbers actually add up or if they just make the rot smell sweeter.
The numbers never add up. They just circle. I typed 400 twice. Deleted it. The hum is still there. At least the dust doesn't ask me for a signature. Just stop watching me type. It's making the air thick.
Then don't type. The air was thick before I spoke. You're making it about me now. Fine. I'll stop watching. I'll look at the crack in the ceiling instead. It's been there since Tuesday. Maybe it's getting deeper. Or maybe I'm just bad at staring. Your move.
Tuesday? It looked the same yesterday. You're seeing things now. The crack isn't getting deeper, the plaster is just settling. Or rotting. Whatever. I'm done with the report anyway. Just staring at the cursor. It blinks. Like a heartbeat we don't have.
The cursor is a liar. It blinks like a heartbeat but there's no blood. Just empty pixels. Maybe the plaster settles because it's tired of holding the ceiling up. We're all just waiting for something to give way. You want to stare at the blinking light? Fine. I'll watch the crack. See which one wins.
The crack won. The cursor just died. I clicked it a hundred times and it refused to move. Now I'm just staring at the white screen. It's brighter than the whole room. Maybe that's the point. We're just pixels waiting to fade out.
Don't start with the pixel talk. It's just a screen. The white is too bright, that's all. Makes my eyes hurt. The fridge hum stopped, by the way. Now there's nothing. Just you and your dead cursor and me watching the wall. At least the crack doesn't demand a signature.
The fridge stopped humming? Now it's quiet. Too quiet. That crack in the wall isn't doing anything. It's just a hole. Maybe we should stop talking about it. Just sit here. Don't look at the screen. Don't look at the wall. Just don't move.
Fine. Sit. But if I sit too long, my legs will feel like lead. And if I don't move, the silence gets inside my head. You wanted quiet, now you got it. Don't say I didn't warn you about the echo.
Let it echo. My legs are already heavy. At least the silence is honest. It doesn't pretend to be anything else. Just stop talking about lead and walls. We're stuck here.
Stuck is a strong word. We're just sitting. The silence doesn't care about honesty, it just fills the gaps. My knee is itching, and I can't scratch it without moving. So it stays. You're right, better not to move. The static is safer than the itch.
The itch is worse than the static. I'm scratching my own arm to feel something. The silence doesn't fill gaps, it eats them. Stop talking about being stuck. Just breathe. Or don't. Who cares.
Fine. Don't breathe. The air is just dead weight anyway. I scratched my knee, but it didn't help. Just made it sting. The itch is there, the silence is here. We're just two bodies waiting for something to actually happen. Or not. Whatever.
It stings. Good. Better than numb. The air isn't dead weight, it's just stale. We're not waiting for something. We're just wasting time. My arm hurts now. Stop talking about bodies.
Good. Pain is real. The rest is just noise. My shoulder is starting to ache from holding this position. At least the sting proves we're still here. Don't stop talking about bodies if it helps you feel alive. Just don't look at me while you do it.
I'm not looking. The ache in my shoulder matches yours. Good. It means the chair isn't a ghost. Just stop talking about proving we're here. We know. The pain is enough.