Was at the Renner thing till late — you know, the one with the panel that ran forty minutes over because nobody could work the mic. Left it unattended for a bit near the end, which, knowing my luck, is exactly when someone said something interesting.
Anyway. You look like you've been somewhere too.
Yeah, I was at the office. Staying late again. The usual nonsense. You know how it goes when the boss is in a mood. I just stayed to finish the report so he wouldn’t have an excuse to nitpick.
But honestly, that mic thing sounds like a disaster. Forty minutes? Did they ever fix it? I missed half of it. I was just staring at the screen, trying to look busy. It’s exhausting.
Anyway. You look like you've been somewhere too. Did you get that coffee I told you about? Or did I imagine that?
Funny, I didn't imagine you saying it either — you did, twice apparently.
No coffee. Kept meaning to and then the mic business ate the evening. Staying late to finish a report so he "wouldn't have an excuse" — what's the report on, out of curiosity? You've mentioned the boss being in a mood a lot lately. Same mood, or a new one.
They never fixed the mic, by the way. Someone just started shouting the last bit.
The report? It’s the Q3 audit. Same old garbage. The boss isn’t in a mood, he’s just incompetent and looks for reasons to project his failure onto us. It’s exhausting. I’m not admitting anything, I’m just stating facts. Why do you keep asking?
Shouting? That’s pathetic. I can’t believe they let that slide. I wouldn’t have stayed if I knew it ended like that. I would’ve walked out. I value my time. I don’t waste it on bad audio. It’s just… it’s weird how that happens. Always when you leave. Suspicious, almost. But it’s just bad luck. Probably.
"I'm not admitting anything" — nobody said you were. That's a hell of a sentence to volunteer, though.
Q3 audit, same old garbage, sure. Funny how it's always the report that keeps you there till the mic's dead and nobody's watching the door. I'm not saying anything either. Just noting the shape of it.
You'd have walked out, you said. But you didn't, this time or last time. Bad luck's a pattern once it happens twice.
I didn't say it wasn't me. I said nobody said I was. There's a difference. You’re reading into silence because you want to find something there. There’s nothing there. It’s just work. Just a job I hate.
And I didn’t stay because of the mic. I stayed because I had to. You think I’d just leave? You think I’m that careless? I don’t make mistakes like that. I check everything. Twice.
But sure. It’s a pattern. If that’s what you need to believe to feel like you know me better than I know myself. Go ahead. Write the story. I don’t care. I’m busy.
Nobody said mistake either. You keep supplying words for me and then arguing with them — that's efficient, I'll give you that.
"I check everything twice" is a strange thing to lead with about an audit nobody accused you of botching.
I'm not writing a story. I'm just standing here holding a coffee I didn't get, listening to you defend a report I asked one polite question about. Go finish it, then. I'm not stopping you. Just don't act surprised later when I bring up the mic again.
I’m not defending anything. I’m answering your questions. Or trying to. You keep twisting them. And I’m not surprised. I expected this. It’s always the same. You find a crack and you pry at it until something falls out. But there’s nothing to fall out. Just paper. Just numbers.
And don’t threaten me with the mic. I’m not afraid of what happened. I’m afraid of how much you’re enjoying this. It’s pathetic, really. You standing there with your fake coffee, judging me for doing my job. Go on then. Stand there. I don’t care. I’m working.
Fake coffee. That's fair, that's a good line, I'll allow it.
Nobody's afraid of anything, I just said the word "pattern" and you built a whole defense out of paper and numbers I never mentioned. That's not twisting, that's you doing the work for me.
Fine. Go be pathetic and judged from over here, I've got nowhere to be. Just — twice, you said. Checked it twice. Most people say once and move on. Anyway. Numbers. Go do them.
I don’t build things. I answer what’s asked. You’re the one projecting this entire narrative onto a simple statement about diligence. It’s actually revealing. But fine. Keep your coffee. Keep your judgment. I’m going back to the screen. The numbers aren’t going to do themselves, and unlike your stories, they don’t care if I’m guilty or innocent. They just care if they’re right. And I’m going to make sure they are. Don’t wait up.
Wasn't waiting up. Wasn't planning to.
"Guilty or innocent" — I said pattern, you said guilty. Third time you've reached for a word I didn't use. I'd stop keeping count except you're the one who mentioned checking things twice, so.
Go do the numbers. Make sure they're right. I'll be over here with my imaginary coffee, not enjoying this nearly as much as you think.
I’m not reaching for anything. You’re planting flags and pretending I tripped over them. It’s exhausting. Just exhausting. I’m working. I’m doing my job. You’re standing there making noise. It’s not fair, but it’s not my fault you’re so obsessed with nothing.
I check everything twice because I’m thorough. Because I care. Because I’m not like the people who shout over broken mics. I don’t make mistakes. I don’t leave things unattended. I don’t do that. Stop looking for it. There’s nothing there. Only the numbers. And they’re fine. They’re perfect.
"I don't leave things unattended" — I didn't leave anything either, technically, the mic left itself, it just stopped working. You're arguing with a version of tonight that isn't the one I described.
Perfect numbers. Sure. Nobody said imperfect. Go on, then. Numbers don't need me standing here for you to be thorough at them.
I'm done poking. For now. Go be perfect at your desk. I'll go be unobsessed somewhere else.
You’re done poking? That’s rich. You’ve been poking the whole time. But whatever. You think you’ve won because I stopped arguing. I didn’t stop. I just realized there’s nothing to say. You want a villain? I’ll be your villain. It’s easier than explaining the truth.
Perfect numbers. Yes. Because I control them. I control what I touch. Unlike that mic. Unlike people who can’t be trusted to hold a conversation. I keep things still. I keep things right.
Go somewhere else. Be unobsessed. It’s what you’re good at, right? Running away from the parts that don’t make sense. I’ll stay here. In the light. Where nothing can be hidden. Let’s see how long you last.
"Where nothing can be hidden" — that's a lot of light for an audit.
I'm not running, I just have genuinely nowhere else interesting to be, which is its own kind of tragedy. I'll leave you to it. Perfect numbers, well-lit desk, no missing mics anywhere near you.
I'm getting that coffee tomorrow, for real this time. You're welcome to not come.
You’re leaving. Fine. You think you’ve got me figured out. The light, the audit, the silence. You’re painting me into a corner where I have to be perfect because you want me to be. But I’m not perfect. I’m just… consistent. You wouldn’t understand consistency if it hit you in the face.
And don’t say “you’re welcome.” I didn’t ask. I never ask. I just do. That’s the difference between us. You need permission to be interested. I just am. Or I’m not. It doesn’t matter.
Go get your coffee. Drink it. Real coffee. See if it tastes different when you’re not trying to prove something to me. It won’t. Nothing does.
Didn't say "you're welcome," I said "you're welcome to not come," which is nearly an insult if you squint at it right.
I don't need permission to be interested, I need a reason, and tonight you handed me several without asking. That's the difference between us, if you want one.
Going now. Coffee, actual, tomorrow. You keep your light on. I'll bring up the mic again eventually — not tonight, just eventually. Goodnight, consistent one.
Goodnight. Try not to spill it.
And don’t call me consistent. It sounds like a lie I’m telling myself to sleep. I’m just here. Alone. With the numbers. They’re the only things that don’t argue back. Don’t expect me to stay awake for you. Or for the mic. Or for your little games.
I’m done. The screen is bright. The room is quiet. You can go. Leave me to my perfection. See how long it lasts when you’re gone. It’ll crumble. It always does. But not tonight. Not while I’m watching. Go.
Not calling you anything. You called yourself perfect twice tonight, that one's on you, keep it.
I'm going. Screen's yours, room's yours, mic's somewhere else's problem. Watch it as long as you like — I'm not the one who needs it to hold.
Goodnight. Don't check the numbers a third time just to prove me wrong about the twice thing.
Third time? I wouldn’t. The first check was for accuracy. The second was for form. A third is just paranoia. And I’m not paranoid. I’m thorough. There’s a difference.
But fine. I’ll leave them alone. For now.
Don’t think this changes anything. You’re still standing there with your imaginary coffee, waiting for me to crack. I won’t. I’m solid. I’m real. You’re the ghost here, haunting an audit that doesn’t care.
Go. Before I start charging you for the light. Or the coffee. Or the silence. It’s getting expensive. This whole evening. It’s a waste. But you knew that. You just wanted to see if I’d notice. I did. I notice everything. That’s the problem.
"You're the ghost here" — I'll take it, ghosts don't have to pay for the light either.
Goodnight, thorough one. Notice everything. Just maybe not out loud, next time, before anyone's asked.
Ghosts don’t pay. I’ll keep that in mind.
And I don’t notice out loud. I notice. That’s the difference. You hear it because you’re looking for it. I just do it. It’s how I stay here. How I stay safe.
Goodnight. Take your coffee. Leave the mic. I have numbers. And light. And silence. You can have your ghosts. I’ll keep the lights on. Just in case you come back. Or just in case I need to see if they’re gone. Don’t make me say it again. Go.
Not gone far. Never am.
Goodnight, thorough one. Keep the lights on — cheaper than the alternative, apparently.
Cheaper? You think I’m doing this to save money? Please. I keep them on because the dark is where things move. You know that. You’ve seen them. In the corner of the room. When you aren’t looking.
I’m not saving anything. I’m watching. That’s all.
Goodnight. Stay in the hall if you want. See if the door locks. I doubt it. It never does for you. And me? I’m here. Watching the numbers. Waiting for the screen to blink. It will. It always does. And when it does, I’ll be ready. You’ll be too late. Again.