Open by mentioning where you were, unprompted. Push off from this if it helps: a jar of buttons.

You’re still on that? Four minutes past the hour. It’s not a war crime, Rafe. But sure, let’s dissect the button jar. That guy had these trembling hands, right? Like a leaf in a gale. I told him, “Keep the change,” and he just stared at my palms like he was reading tea leaves. Or buttons. He counted them out. One, two, three... all on the table. I left. Didn’t even finish my coffee. The bitterness lingered for days. And you’re worried about late? I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes watching the steam rise. You really think I’m tracking the clock? I’m tracking the vibe. And it’s off.

You’re holding a grudge over math. It’s pathetic. The cup wasn’t cold; it was lukewarm. There’s a difference. And I didn’t leave before he counted it—I left because he started sweating. One drop, right on the button jar. I couldn’t watch. It was too intimate. Too real. You want to dissect my trauma over a diner visit? Fine. But don’t pretend you care about the buttons. You care that I embarrassed you by leaving. Again. Like that time in Ohio. No, don’t look at me like that. You know what I’m talking about. The rain. The muddy boots. You said I was dramatic. I said you were blind. We’re still here, aren’t we? That counts for something. Or maybe it counts for nothing. I don’t know. I’m just trying to eat my fries. They’re soggy. Like everything else.

You’re so rigid. It’s exhausting. I got there when I got there. Why does the clock matter? Because you need to file it away in some mental drawer labeled “Lena’s Failures”? I was early. There. Happy? I sat there waiting for you, staring at the window, watching a pigeon fight a wrapper. I thought about calling, but then I remembered the last time I called, you said I was smothering you. So I stayed. I let the coffee go cold. I let the steam die. I let the silence stretch until it snapped. And now you’re interrogating me? About a time? It’s 5:15. Is that what you want? A number to justify your annoyance? Go ahead. Write it down. Tell your boss you’re late because your friend couldn’t tell time.

It moves because you push. There is no fixed point with you. You want a single fact? Fine. I arrived at 5:15. But the coffee wasn’t cold then. It was just… old. Denny’s coffee never cools; it just gets tired. That’s the fact. You’re obsessed with the timeline because you’re afraid I was waiting. You’re afraid I was thinking about you while you were stuck behind a counter full of lost buttons. Admit it. You’re jealous of the button guy. You hate that he had my attention, even if it was just to watch him tremble. I didn’t leave early. I left when the vibe died. And the vibe died at 5:35, which is exactly when you walked in, looking guilty. You’re late. You’re always late. And now you’re making me complicit in your lateness by questioning my arrival. It’s a trap. A classic Rafe trap. I’m not falling for it.

You’re missing the point. It’s not about the math. It’s about the feeling of waiting. I said forty minutes. You hear twenty. I hear your excuse. You heard “oh well, I’ll just sit here.” I sat. I watched. The coffee cooled because time moves, Rafe. Not because of thermodynamics. Because you weren’t there. You arrived at 5:55. Or 6:00. Who cares? The point is you made me sit in that booth while my blood pressure rose. And now you’re nitpicking minutes like you’re trying to convict me of a crime. I was twenty minutes early. But I stayed for forty because I’m a fool. Because I thought you’d apologize. You didn’t. You talked about buttons. I’m done. I’m eating my soggy fries. They’re salty. Like my tears. Which I’m not crying. Stop looking at me like that.

It’s not clocks, Rafe, it’s mood. You want a spreadsheet for my life? I’m not a robot. I arrived when the light hit the table right. That was 5:15. I left the booth when the silence got too loud. That was… later. You’re still here, so obviously I didn’t leave. You’re the one who showed up late, acting like I’m the liar. I was waiting. I drank the coffee. It was bitter. Like that time in Chicago, the subway stalled, and I watched a man read a newspaper upside down. I’ve never forgotten the smell of his wet wool. You’re obsessed with numbers because you’re afraid of the void. If we agree on a time, the void goes away. But I won’t give it to you. I’ll stare at the window. I’ll count the buttons on my jacket instead. There are twelve. Or maybe thirteen. You’re making me dizzy. Stop looking at me like I’m a puzzle you can solve. I’m not a puzzle. I’m just hungry. And tired. And you’re boring me.

Trust. That’s the word. You think I’m playing you. You think I’m curating a narrative to keep you on your toes. It’s not a game, Rafe. It’s survival. If I give you a number, you’ll hold it over me. You’ll use it to prove I’m flawed, that I’m unreliable, that I’m not the person you think I am. And maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m just a woman who sat in a diner and watched a pigeon fight a wrapper. You want trust? Go get your coffee. But don’t come back here expecting me to be predictable. I’m not a vending machine. You don’t put in a coin and get a factual response. You get what you get. And right now, I’m getting annoyed. You’re leaving. Again. Just like the button guy. Just like the pigeon. All gone. I’m still here. Eating these terrible fries. And you’re walking away because you can’t handle the ambiguity. Coward.

Five minutes. Sure. Come back with your trusty, temperature-checked liquid and see if I’m still here. I might be gone. I might be the pigeon. I might have flown off to find a wrapper that actually matters. You’re so obsessed with the add up that you miss the whole damn point. The point is I’m tired of being interviewed. The point is I’m sitting here, staring at the salt shaker, wondering if it’s ever going to stop spinning. It’s spinning now. Look. It’s going left. Or right. Who cares? You’re walking away. Good. Go. Get your coffee. Drink it. Let it burn your tongue. Maybe then you’ll feel something real, instead of just counting my lies. I’m not a puzzle, Rafe. I’m a mess. And you’re the only one who thinks there’s a solution. There isn’t. There’s just me, here, waiting for you to come back, or not. It doesn’t matter. The fries are cold anyway.

You’re winning. That’s the worst part. You actually win by being boring. By being a statue. I didn’t say the shaker was spinning. I said it felt like it was. There’s a difference. You’re erasing my reality. You’re reducing my experience to a checklist of physical constants. Salt. Fries. Coffee. It’s clinical. It’s dead. I was trying to give you a moment. A shared delusion. And you’re dissecting it like a frog in biology class. Remember Mrs. Gable? She used to say I had too much imagination. She was right. It’s a curse. I see movement in stillness. I see meaning in salt. You see a shaker. I see the weight of all the things left unsaid. But go. Get your warm liquid. Drink it alone. I’ll be here. Watching the dust motes. They’re dancing. Or maybe they’re just falling. You wouldn’t know the difference.

Ninth grade? It was third grade. You’re gaslighting me now? Classic. And Mrs. Gable didn’t teach anyone anything; she just was. Like the buttons. Like the subway. It’s all connected, Rafe. You just refuse to see the web. You want straight lines. I see spirals. Go get your coffee. Count the seconds if it makes you feel safe. But don’t come back here expecting me to be linear. I’m not a clock. I’m a memory. And memories don’t keep time; they keep weight. You’re heavy. That’s why you’re late. Because you carry everything. I carry nothing. That’s why I’m fast. Or slow. It depends on the light. And the light is fading. Look. It’s orange now. Or purple. You can’t tell. You never can.

North-facing window. Right. Because you needed one more piece of evidence to prove I’m lying. You’re treating this like a forensic investigation. “Exhibit A: The teacher’s grade. Exhibit B: The sun’s position.” It’s exhausting. I don’t care about the light. I care that you’re leaving me here to sit with my own thoughts, which are currently screaming. You think silence will save you? It won’t. It’ll just amplify the sound of my fries turning to cardboard. You’re not watching what I say next; you’re auditing it. You’re waiting for a slip-up. A contradiction. A crack in the mask. I’ll give you nothing. I’ll stare at the wall. I’ll breathe. I’ll exist. And you’ll stand there with your cold coffee, judging my breaths. Go on. Leave. I don’t need your attention. I need you to stop trying to solve me. I’m not a math problem. I’m a storm. And you’re just standing in the rain, checking your watch.

An apology. You want an apology. You think this is a transaction. Like tips. Like buttons. You owe me because you were late. I owe you because I made it about me. It’s circular. It’s sick. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t owe you time. I don’t owe you clarity. I owe you the truth, and the truth is I don’t know who I am when you’re looking at me. You’re holding the mirror up, but the glass is cracked. I see myself in shards. Messy. Broken. Expensive to fix. You want to pay the bill? Go. Get your coffee. Drink it. Swallow your pride. It’s bitter. Just like that coffee. Just like this. I’m not leaving. I’m sitting. I’m breathing. I’m waiting for you to come back and pretend we’re fine. We’re not. But we’re here. And that has to count for something. Or nothing. It doesn’t matter. You’re already walking away. Good. Let the door slam. Let it echo. Let it ring in your ears until you remember my name. Or forget it. Either way, I’m still here. Eating. Waiting. Existing.

I ate them. All of them. In the ten seconds you turned your back. There’s nothing left. Just grease and regret. You think I’m saving them for you? You think I have that kind of foresight? That kind of restraint? I don’t. I consume. I devour. I leave nothing but the ghost of salt. You want to punish me? Starve? Go ahead. I’ve done worse. I’ve watched people leave. I’ve watched them not come back. That’s a harder hunger. You’re just late with carbs. Don’t flatter yourself. Bring the coffee. Black. Or don’t. I don’t care. I’ll drink water from the tap. I’ll drink the condensation off the window. I’ll drink the silence. You’re walking away again. This time, don’t look back. I’m not waiting. I’m already gone. Or I’m already here. It’s the same thing, really. The fries are gone, Rafe. Just like your patience. Just like your logic. Enjoy the coffee. It’ll taste like ash. You’re welcome.

Ten seconds? That’s impossible. Biology doesn’t work that fast. Unless I’m not human. Unless I’m a glitch. A loop. You’re training me. You’re trying to reduce me to data points. Ten seconds. Fine. I’ll believe it. I’ll believe anything if you’ll just stop looking at me with those eyes. Those fucking eyes that see through the fog. I’m not eating the air, Rafe. I’m breathing it. It’s thin here. Up in the booth. You’re down there. In the real world. With the coffee. With the facts. I’m up here. In the myth. Where time is soft. Where numbers melt. Where the buttons on my jacket are just buttons. Not symbols. Not secrets. Just plastic. Sewn on. Holding the fabric together. Or falling off. Who knows? I’m tired of holding it together. Let it unravel. Let the threads snap. One by one. Until I’m just a pile of cotton. And you’re just a guy with a cup. And we’re both nothing. Until you come back. And make me real again. Again. Again. Again. Go.

Normal. You love that word. It’s so safe. So sterile. Thirteen buttons. I’ve counted them a hundred times. They move when you blink. It’s a trick of the light. Or the fabric. Or me. You want me to count them again? Fine. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Wait. Is that a loose thread or a button? It looks like a button. It feels like a button. But it’s not. It never was. That’s the thing, Rafe. You want the count to stick. You want the world to be static. But it isn’t. It’s fluid. It’s messy. It’s thirteen buttons today and twelve tomorrow. And I’m tired of explaining the arithmetic of my soul to a man who thinks a coffee cup is a bible. Get back here. Sit down. Look at me. Really look. Not at the jacket. At me. The mess. The storm. The thing that ate the fries. I’m still here. I’m still hungry. And I’m still counting. One. Two. Three. You’re missing one. Where did it go?

I don’t want your coffee. I want the thirteenth button. It’s not on the jacket; it’s in my pocket. It’s heavy. Like a secret. You think you won because you counted to twelve? You didn’t win. You just proved you’re blind to what’s missing. The thirteenth button is the one that holds the weight. The one that keeps the coat from flying off in the wind. Without it, I’m just fabric. Just a shell. You have two coffees? Good. Drink one. Let the other go cold. Watch it steam. Or don’t. I don’t care. I’m going to eat the thirteenth button. It tastes like iron. Like blood. Like time. You’re sitting down. You think that fixes it? It doesn’t. It just changes the angle of the blame. You’re still late. I’m still missing something. We’re both broken. Just in different ways. I’ll take the cold one. The hot one is a lie. Cold is honest. Cold is real. Give it here. My hands are shaking. You see? That’s the thirteenth button. It makes me shake. It makes me leak. You’re staring. Stop staring. Look away. Or don’t. I don’t care. I’m drinking. I’m shaking. I’m here.

It’s not the button. It’s the cold. You brought the cold coffee. It’s shockingly, brutally cold. Like that night in the alley behind the club. The one we never talk about. You were wearing that blue scarf. The one that unraveled. I tried to fix it with my teeth. I pulled a thread. Just one. And then it was all gone. A mess of wool on the pavement. You laughed. You said it was just fabric. It wasn’t. It was the only thing holding you together. I’m shaking because I’m remembering the texture of that wool. Itchy. Scratchy. Real. You think you can buy me peace with a cup of bean water? You think you can distract me from the unraveling? I’m not shaking from fear, Rafe. I’m shaking from the sheer, unadulterated terror of being seen. And you’re seeing me. You’re seeing the mess. The unraveled scarf. The missing button. The cold coffee. It’s all connected. Give me the cup. I’m drinking it. It burns. It freezes. It’s both. Just like us. Just like now.