Hey — random, but what's your next couple weekends look like? Not like, interrogating you, just— curious if you're around or doing something.
Also roundabouts, god, don't get me started. There's one by my flat that's basically a demolition derby at rush hour, some guy clipped a cyclist last week just doing the standard "nobody signals" dance.
Ah, annoying. So sorry about that cyclist. Hope he’s okay.
My weekends? Mine is… solid. Actually, that’s why I’m asking. I need you. I’m hosting a thing. A small get-together. You’d be the guest of honor, essentially. It’s totally low key. Just me, some friends from work, maybe a few others. We’re planning a game night. Board games. I bought that new one, the heavy box with the wooden pieces. The one you said was “too intense.” But everyone else loved it. So I figured, why not?
It’s going to be on the twentieth. You’ll come, right?
The twentieth— yeah, maybe, let me check. Work's been doing this thing where they shuffle my shifts with like two days' notice, it's infuriating. That game though, the wooden one — I said too intense, I meant too long, there's a difference. Four hours over a board is not a "game night," that's a hostage situation.
Who's coming? Anyone I know or is it the whole finance-team crowd again.
Finance people? Ew. No. Just some neighbors. And Sarah. You know Sarah. From the bakery? The one with the loud laugh. She’s bringing that terrible potato salad she makes. The one with too much mayo. It’s like eating clouds of regret.
Anyway, it’s just us. No suits. No PowerPoint presentations about synergy. Just snacks, wine, and pretending we have our lives together. I swear, Edie, you’ll love it. Or you’ll hate it. But you’ll be there. Because I bought extra napkins. And I don’t do laundry for strangers.
So, did you check your schedule? Or are you going to hide in your flat and eat cereal for dinner again?
Sarah's potato salad is a war crime, I stand by that. Clouds of regret, exactly.
I didn't check, no — my phone's being weird, calendar app keeps crashing, I'll look tonight. Probably fine though, just say maybe for now and I'll firm it up. Napkins were a bold purchase, very optimistic of you.
And no, I do not just eat cereal, I had actual food last night. A sandwich counts as actual food, don't start.
Sandwich. Right. With the crusts on? I bet you left them. You always leave the crusts. It’s like you’re hoarding bread for a future famine.
Anyway, try to fix the phone. If you don’t show up, I’m eating all the dip. And Sarah’s salad. It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for my mental health. But seriously, Edie. Show up. I need a witness. Just… one person who knows what really happened. That’s all.
Also, did you hear about Mark from accounting? He’s gone. Vanished. Poof. Weird, right? Everyone says he just moved, but I saw his desk cleared out on a Tuesday. That’s not a Tuesday move. That’s a “I’m hiding from my secrets” move. Creepy.
Crusts are structural, they hold the sandwich together, you're supposed to eat them last not first, everyone knows this.
"Witness" is a weird word for board games, just saying. What really happened — to what, the potato salad? Sounds ominous.
Mark probably just bailed for a better commute, people don't need a conspiracy for that. Though clearing your desk on a Tuesday is suspiciously specific of you to notice. You watching everyone's exits now?
I’m not watching anyone. I’m just… observant. There’s a difference.
Witness for what? For the chaotic void of Sarah’s mayo. And for when I inevitably lose the wooden game. I need someone to blame. Preferably you. You have a face for scapegoating.
Anyway, try to get that phone working. If you’re not there, I’m telling everyone you quit. That you fled to the mountains to become a hermit. It’s much more dramatic than “admits defeat at Monopoly.” So, stick around, Edie. Don’t make me guess. It’s bad for my blood pressure. And my social life. Which is currently non-existent.
A face for scapegoating, incredible, thank you. I'll wear it proudly at the guillotine.
Fine — I'll try to make the twentieth, phone permitting. Don't tell people I fled to the mountains though, I don't have the wardrobe for hermit, all my coats are city coats.
I've got my own stuff going that week too, might be tight, but I'll figure it out. Not gonna guess what though, don't ask, it's boring admin.
Admin. Right. Those boring, invisible details that swallow your life. You always say that before you vanish for three days. “Just sorting some paperwork,” you say. Then you’re gone. Until the twentieth.
I’ll try not to ask. I’m bad at curiosity suppression anyway. My boss keeps me on a tight leash for that reason. HR thinks I’m “over-involved.” I think they’re just jealous of my observation skills. And my dip.
So, twenty-first is off the table? Twentieth it is. Don’t forget the crusts. And the phone. If it crashes, I’m assuming you’ve been abducted by the roundabout demons. That cyclist owes you an apology, by the way. Still don’t know if he did.
Roundabout demons, I like that, very "local news at 11" energy.
I don't vanish for three days, that's an exaggeration, it was one time and it was tax stuff, genuinely miserable, not a conspiracy. Anyway twentieth, yes, fine, locked in, I'll bring something that isn't potato salad as a form of protest.
Cyclist's fine I think, walked it off yelling. Roundabouts breed a certain kind of rage you don't see elsewhere.
Good. I hate when people bring potato salad to my own house. It’s like a betrayal of the highest order. You bringing actual food is a mercy.
Tax stuff. Boring. I get that. My timesheet is a nightmare. Last week I logged twelve hours on “miscellaneous administrative tasks” just to cover for Dave’s absence. Dave who was clearly at a pub. But my boss loves me for my diligence. Sarcasm.
Anyway. Twentieth. Bring wine. Or the protest snacks. Just don’t be late. I get anxious if I’m not the center of attention. It’s a flaw. A big one. But you know me. I’m a mess. A beautiful, organized mess. With too many napkins.
Wine, obviously, I'm not a monster. Something red, probably too expensive for board games but that's not my problem.
Dave sounds like a legend actually, twelve hours of miscellaneous is basically an art form. I respect the commitment to the bit.
I'll be there, not late, don't worry — I've got somewhere to be earlier that day anyway so I'll just come straight over. Not important. Anyway, tell Sarah her potato salad's banned, I'm making an executive decision.
Sarah’s going to murder me. But fair. Ban the salad.
“Not important,” you say. Classic. You always say that right before you’re off doing some secret, high-stakes… tax thing? Or whatever. You’re twitchy. Did you see something? Or did someone see you? I saw a man in a grey suit lurking near your building last week. Looking for someone. Probably HR. They’re always watching. Dave might be a legend, but HR is a shark.
Anyway. Bring the wine. And be nice to Sarah. She has a temper. And mayonnaise. See you on the twentieth. Try not to get abducted by roundabouts.
Grey suit lurking, sure, sounds like a guy waiting for a bus, Lena, not everyone's HR.
I'm not twitchy, I'm caffeinated, there's a difference. Anyway — twentieth, wine, no salad, be nice to Sarah, don't get eaten by a shark. I think that covers it. Go do your actual job now, stop surveilling your own building.
Right. Job. The spreadsheets. The screaming. I have to go back to pretending I care about Q3 projections. Go on, then. Get your wine. And your “caffeine.” Don’t let the bus guy get you. Or the roundabouts.
Oh, and Edie? If you bring that terrible red wine, I’m pouring it down the sink. We’re drinking white this time. Or nothing. Your choice. But seriously. Watch out for the grey suits. They’re everywhere. Even in the bakery. Especially in the bakery.
Bye.
White it is, don't threaten me with a sink, that's violence. Go scream at your spreadsheets. Twentieth — I'll be there, wine in hand, no grey suits attached. Bye, Lena.
Fine. White. Happy? You’re impossible.
I’ll be there. Don’t be late. And Edie? If you’re lying about the “somewhere else” you have to go… I’m watching. I’m always watching. Especially you. Go on. Scream into the void. I’ve got dips to spoil and spreadsheets to murder.
Bye. And lock your door. Those grey suits don’t just wait for buses. They wait for mistakes.
Very happy, deeply fulfilled by white wine, thank you for asking.
Nothing to watch, it's boring, I promise. Go murder your spreadsheets. Lock my own door, obviously, I'm not an idiot. Bye, Lena.
Boring. Sure. Keep telling yourself that.
I’ll be waiting. And Edie? If you’re not there, if you’re hiding behind some “admin” or some other excuse… I’m coming to find you. And I won’t be bringing wine. I’ll be bringing the wooden game pieces. The heavy ones. The ones that hurt when you throw them.
See you on the twentieth. Don’t make me regret this. And lock the door. Really lock it. I saw a shadow move. Just kidding. Maybe.
Bye.
Wooden pieces as a weapon, very on brand for you. Noted, threat received, I'll be there. Go lock your own door, paranoid, and stop imagining shadows, it's just Sarah casing the place for salad revenge. Bye, Lena.
Sarah casing for salad revenge. Ha. You think I’m paranoid? I caught her eyeing the dip spoon like it owed her money. But fine. If you’re not there, I’m blaming the grey suit. And the roundabout demons. And you.
Lock your door. And Edie? If you’re lying about the “boring” admin… I’ll know. I always know.
Bye. Don’t be late. I’m counting the seconds. And the napkins. And the white wine bottles. There are three. If you’re not there, I drink all three. And I tell everyone you died. Tragically. In a roundabout.
Died tragically in a roundabout, very dignified way to go, I approve. Save me one bottle at least. I'll be there, admin's fine, nothing to know. Go count your napkins in peace. Bye, Lena.
Save one? Greedy. Fine. But if you’re late, I’m throwing it at your head.
Admin is fine. Whatever. You’re terrible at lying, by the way. You blink too much when you say “nothing to know.” Like you’re hoping I don’t notice the tremor in your hand. Or the fact that you’ve been staring at that door all morning.
I saw you looking at it. Just now. Through the window. Why were you looking at it? Did you forget your keys? Or did you see someone? Don’t answer. I don’t want to know. I just want my wine. And for you to not vanish.
Bye. Lock the door. Really. I mean it this time. The shadow was definitely a person.