Right, so — I was going through that jar of buttons on the windowsill, the tin one, and I'm sorting through it for no reason except I couldn't sleep, and I keep thinking about what you said before we got cut off. About being at your sister's "all afternoon."
Because I called the landline round three, Dev. Nobody picked up. Not saying anything by that. Just — odd, is all.
I didn't say I was there the whole time, just that I dropped by. You're doing that thing again where you stitch together tiny gaps and call it a pattern. It's exhausting. Maybe the landline was down, or she stepped out. People do that.
Look, I was busy. The rent's due, and that gallery job is a nightmare, moving crates all morning. I barely have time to answer a phone. You're making this into something it isn't. Just... stop digging through the buttons and leave it. It's stupid. I told you I saw her, what more do you want? A signed affidavit?
An affidavit's a bit much, I just — the crate thing, right, that's new. You didn't mention the gallery this morning. You said "errands." Now it's crates all morning at a gallery, plus your sister, plus rent panic. That's a lot to fit into one afternoon, is all I'm saying.
I'm not stitching anything, I've got a button here shaped like a little anchor, I don't even know why I'm telling you that. Forget it. I'm not digging. I just noticed the phone rang out is all. People notice things.
Yeah, well, people also notice things that aren't happening. The anchor button? Look, I said errands because I didn't want to get into the logistics. It's a small gallery, Ben, not a museum. Three hours moving crates and then walking over to my sister's? It's not a rocket science schedule.
You're acting like I'm hiding a body in the crate. I'm not. The phone just wasn't answered. It happens. Stop fixating on the fact that I didn't list my itinerary in real-time for you. It's weird. You're making it weird. Just put the damn button down.
Nobody said body, Dev, that's you saying that, not me. I'm just holding a button.
Fine. Errands, gallery, crates, sister's, phone rings out — I heard you. I'm not writing it on a corkboard with string. I just think it's funny you're the one bringing up bodies and itineraries when all I did was call a landline. That's a normal thing to do. Calling someone.
Anyway. Forget the phone. How's the crate job even paying, are they doing cash or —
Cash, sure, if they're paying at all. It's a scam of a job. They cut you short, say the delivery was late, and then you're out ten bucks on the bus fare. Don't change the subject. You're doing that thing again where you pretend to be casual, ask about money, but you're still looking at that button like it's evidence. It's a piece of metal, Ben.
Why do you care how they pay? You think I'm laundering something? I'm just trying to eat. You're the one acting like every word I say is a clue. I didn't invite you over to interrogate me. Stop pretending you're just asking about the job. You're trying to find a hole in my story. There isn't one.
Laundering. I never said laundering, that's a whole leap, I just asked cash or card, that's what people ask about crappy jobs. You're the one who keeps reaching for the dramatic word first — bodies, laundering — not me.
I put the button down, look, it's on the sill. I'm not interrogating you, I'm sitting in my own kitchen wondering why a phone rang out. That's it. You keep adding chapters nobody asked for.
Eat something, if the crate money's thin, I mean it, I've got soup, come by. That part's not a trick question.
The soup is fine, but you're missing the point. I'm not the one adding chapters. You're the one who can't let a phone call go without turning it into a mystery novel. Why does everything have to be a "mystery" with you? It's annoying.
And yeah, I'm eating something. I'm not starving. But you keep circling back to the phone, the button, the money. It's like you're trying to prove something. What are you trying to prove? That I'm lying? I didn't. I just moved crates and went to my sister's. That's it.
Stop looking at the button like it's a clue. It's just a button.
I'm not looking at it, it's on the sill, I told you. And I'm not trying to prove anything, Dev, honestly, half the time I think you argue with me because you like the shape of it more than the actual thing.
You moved crates. You went to your sister's. Fine. I believe you, mostly, and the part I don't's probably just me being an idiot who overthinks a phone ringing four times.
Come get the soup before it's gone cold, I made too much again like always. We can talk about something that isn't a button.
Finally, you admit it. You were overthinking it. It takes you this long? I was just trying to have a normal conversation without you treating me like a suspect in your own head.
Yeah, leave the soup out. I'll come by. But don't think this means we're clearing the air or whatever. I'm just hungry, not forgiving. And if you bring up the landline again while we're eating, I'm walking out. Seriously. Just... bring the bowl over here.
No promises about the landline, but I'll try. Bowl's on the counter, there's bread too if you want it, it's the stale end but toasted it's fine.
And I didn't say I was wrong, I said I overthink, that's different. Come eat.
Fine, stale bread is better than nothing. And yeah, I know the difference, stop pedanticing me. You're still treating this like a debate where you have to win points. I'm just sitting here eating your soup.
Anyway, the gallery owner's a creep. Said the van was late again, tried to short me on the hours. Typical. At least the soup tastes like you actually tried. Don't think this means I'm not still watching you from the corner of my eye, though. You're too quiet. It's suspicious.
Watching me eat soup, sure, that's fair, go ahead. I'm not gonna be interesting about it though, I just chew.
That gallery guy sounds like a prick. You should keep a tally, hours and all, write it down somewhere so it's not just his word next time he tries that. Not saying that as a — it's just a practical thing, people underpay you when there's no paper.
Eat the bread before it goes soft. I put too much garlic in, probably, tell me if it's bad, I won't be offended.
Yeah, the garlic is fine, maybe a little much, but it's not bad. And I don't write things down. I keep it in my head. The guy is a creep, sure, but I don't need a ledger to know he's shorting me. I remember the hours. I remember the crates.
Stop trying to be helpful. It's condescending. You're acting like I'm some kid who can't handle a boss. I've been working since I was sixteen, Ben. I know how to deal with it. Just eat your bread and stop analyzing my soup-eating habits. It's weird.
Wasn't being condescending, just — never mind. I'll eat my bread. It's good bread, actually, I take that back about it being stale, I was wrong, the toasting saved it.
Sixteen, huh. I didn't know that, the working since sixteen thing. What was it, first job I mean, before the gallery.
Does it matter? It was summer of '98, scrubbing floors at a diner on 4th. Do you really want the history lesson? I'm not trying to impress you with my work ethic.
And you just contradicted yourself again. "I'll eat my bread" and then "I was wrong about it being stale." You can't keep a straight thought. Stop digging for the "first job" like it's gonna explain the landline. It won't. The landline is just a phone.
The soup is getting cold again while you pick at my past. Just eat.
Wasn't digging, I actually just wanted to know, diners are interesting, everybody's got a diner story. Forget it though.
Eating. Look — spoon, mouth, see. Soup's good, I'm not fishing for compliments either. We can just sit here a minute and not talk if you want, that's allowed too.
Good. Just eat. You're making a weird face while you chew, like you're solving a puzzle with the spoon. It's annoying.
Yeah, the floor scrubbing at that diner was hell, the mop bucket always smelled like bleach and old grease. But don't think I'm going to start a monologue about it now. I'm tired. And you're staring at the soup bowl like it's gonna speak.
Just finish the damn bread. The garlic is actually winning this time, it's everywhere. Stop looking at me like I'm the one who's supposed to talk. I'm just sitting here, breathing. That's it.
Fine, fine, no puzzle face. I'll work on my bread, you work on your breathing, we'll call it even.
The garlic is a lot, you're right, I always do this, I get a bottle in my hand and lose track of the plan entirely. Next time remind me halfway through. Or don't, actually, apparently it's winning, so.
Anyway. Sit. Eat. I'll stop staring at bowls like they owe me money.
Yeah, "losing track" is your specialty. You probably lost track of the phone call too. But whatever, if the garlic is winning, then it's winning.
Just don't start analyzing the toast next. It's bread, not a philosophic treatise. You're trying too hard to make this normal. It's just soup and stale bread.
I'm still not happy about the landline, by the way. You say "I believe you" but you keep circling back. It's exhausting. Just chew. Quietly.
Chewing. Quietly. See.
Didn't circle back, that one's actually on you, you brought the landline into it just now, not me, so. But fine, I'll let you have that too.
Bread's not a treatise, you're right, it's just bread, mostly garlic at this point though, structurally.
You're impossible. I didn't "bring it in," you just couldn't let it go, so now you're blaming me for my own reaction. Typical deflection.
And yeah, it's mostly garlic now, it's like eating a clove of raw onion. You really did lose control of the bottle. But I'm not going to lecture you on garlic ratios while you chew silently. Just... don't think that silence means we're good. You're still the guy who called a landline three times and acted like it was a crime scene.
Finish the bread before it turns into garlic paste. I'm done talking for now.
Once. I called it once, not three times, but sure, add two more, why not.
Finishing the bread. Not talking either. This is fine, actually, the quiet part. Better than the button, probably.
Once? You called it three times, Ben. I heard the voicemail log. Don't start rewriting history now that you're trying to pretend we're friends. You said "round three" yourself.
But fine, the quiet is okay. At least you're not probing for buttons or landlines right now. Just... stop crunching so loud. It sounds like you're hiding something in the crumbs. And don't think for a second that "it's better than the button" means you get a pass on the landline thing later. I'm not done with that.
Just eat.
Voicemail log. Right. Didn't know you'd checked it that closely, but fine, three, once, whatever number makes the crumbs quieter.
Not hiding anything in the crumbs, Dev, it's bread, I promise, no buttons in there either.
Eating quietly now. For real this time.
You're getting really good at sounding convincing without actually saying anything. "No buttons in there," sure. Just like you weren't "digging" earlier.
Eat the damn bread. Stop making jokes about the crumbs. The quiet is fine, but don't think I'm not watching you count the pieces. One, two, three... you're still doing it. You're counting to prove something.
Just swallow it. The garlic is burning my throat, stop talking about crumbs.
Not counting anything, that's you narrating me now, I'm just eating bread like a normal person at a normal table.
Drink some water if the garlic's burning, there's a glass right there, don't just sit there suffering for the bit.
I'm not doing a bit. I'm eating your garlic bread and it's burning my throat. You're the one narrating me now, saying I'm narrating you. It's a mess.
Here, thanks, I'll drink the water. But don't think this fixes the landline thing. You still called it three times. And you still have that anchor button. Just... drink your own water. Stop watching me like a hawk. The bread is almost gone, that's all that matters right now.
Bread's almost gone, that part's true, at least we agree on the bread.
Drinking my water. Not watching, just — sitting here, same table, same room, that's not a hawk thing, that's just where the chairs are.
Anchor button's still on the sill if you want to see it, by the way. It's not evidence, I know. Just liked the shape of it.
I don't want to see it. It's still there, on the sill, even after all this time. You keep it there like a trophy. "Just liked the shape," right. Like you just like the way the landline rings out or how I move crates.
Stop telling me what you like. It's suspicious. I'm not looking at the sill. I'm looking at my bowl. The water helped, but the garlic is still in my head. Just... leave the button there if you want, but don't expect me to go over and admire it. I'm done with the sill for today.