Ask a casual question that is not casual. Push off from this if it helps: handwriting on envelopes.

My hands are fine. You’re looking at a stroke of genius, not my handwriting. I’ve been practicing. It’s called art, Frank. You wouldn’t get it. It’s distinct. Personal. Why are you holding that magnifying glass up to the counter like you’re trying to decode the Dead Sea Scrolls? I didn’t write it. I found it. Or someone left it. Get over yourself.

I don’t have guests, Frank. You know that. It’s just me and the rent collector who doesn’t knock. I didn’t "leave" it. I brought it in. There’s a difference. I was rushing, okay? Work was a nightmare, my boss is a jerk, I’m tired. I didn’t stop to do a forensic analysis of every piece of mail that lands in my mail slot. You’re making this huge thing out of a signature that means nothing to anyone but you. I’m going to make coffee.

It’s an envelope, Frank. Not a confession. I didn’t say “found it” then. I said I don’t know where it came from. That’s not a story, it’s ignorance. And for the record, I stopped saying “found it” because you looked like you were about to call the cops. I’m not an idiot. I brought it in from the lobby. The super must have mislaid it. Stop twisting my words. You’re exhausting.

You’re writing down lies, Frank. I said I didn’t know. I’m trying to give you a plausible answer so you stop staring at me like I’m a puzzle you’re desperate to solve. The super is lazy. He’s always dropping things. I picked it up because I’m polite, not because I’m guilty. You want me to confess to what? Being human? Being tired? Go ahead, write it down. See if it makes sense. It doesn’t. It’s just noise. You’re hearing things that aren’t there because you’re paranoid. Drink your water.

Because you’re implying it by the way you look at me! It’s in the air. You think I’m hiding something, so I say “guilty” to mock the absurdity of the situation. It’s sarcasm, Frank. You’re too dense to catch sarcasm. I didn’t write the letter. I don’t care about the letter. I care that you’re standing there analyzing my life like a crime scene. It’s pathetic. Actually, make coffee. Both of us. Maybe it’ll dull the senses enough for you to realize you’re being ridiculous. I’m making it black. Don’t ask me why.

I didn’t say I knew. I said “the letter” because it’s in the envelope. It’s a linguistic shortcut, Frank. Not a confession. You’re twisting every syllable. If I knew what was inside, why would I bring it home? Why would I talk about it? I’m just trying to get through the morning without you dissecting my every word like a frog in biology class. I don’t know what’s in it. I don’t care. Stop looking at me like that. It’s making me thirsty.

You’re doing it on purpose. Shifting the goalposts. One minute it’s the envelope, next it’s my vocabulary, now I’m correcting your coffee order. I didn’t bring up the morning; you did. Or did I? I can’t keep track with you staring at me like that. It’s unsettling. I’m tired. My head is pounding. The coffee is there. Drink it. Or don’t. I don’t care anymore. Just stop looking at my hands. They’re just hands.

God, you’re exhausting. I’m going to sit down. My legs feel like jelly. You’re just standing there holding that stupid mug, watching me breathe. Do I look guilty? Is that what you want? A reaction? A tear? I’m not giving it to you. I’m just tired. Work was hell. The boss yelled at me. I came home. There was an envelope. I didn’t ask questions. That’s it. End of story. Now leave me alone.

Fine. Sit. I’m sitting. Happy? My back is killing me from that shift at the warehouse. Boxes. Heavy boxes. And now this interrogation. I didn’t do anything. I’m just a person who works too hard and comes home to a weird envelope. If you’re waiting for me to break, you’re waiting forever. I’m done. I’m going to stare at the wall. You can keep your coffee. Keep watching. See if I care.

Don’t “whatever” me. You’re trying to trip me up. I move between shifts. You don’t get the details of my life, Frank. You just see what I let you. I’m tired of this. I’m staring at the wall. It’s beige. It’s boring. It’s safe. Unlike you, pacing around like a caged animal, analyzing my silence. I’m not hiding anything. I’m just done. Let the wall speak. It’s got better things to say than your little game.

You’re impossible. Fine. Go stand there. In the kitchen. Or the hall. I don’t care. Just stop hovering. It’s creepy. You’re acting like a detective in a bad noir film, but there’s no body, no crime, just me and a stupid envelope. I’m staring at the beige wall. It’s peaceful. Silent. Unlike you. I’m going to close my eyes. If you’re still there when I open them, I’m calling the super. Not the cops. The super. He owes me for that envelope.

He owed me for the broken lock on the lobby door. The envelope was just... there. On the counter. I didn’t take it from him. It was already here. You’re twisting everything. “Delivering it” implies intent. I didn’t deliver anything. I just... saw it. Stop trying to trap me with semantics. It’s pathetic. I’m closing my eyes. If you say one more word, I’m calling the landlord. Not for the envelope. For harassment. Go stand in the hall. Away from me.