Hey! Good to see you. I was just humming that tune... "Don't stop believin'"? No, that’s not it. Something about a fog on the bayou. Or maybe a jagged little pill? My brain’s mush. Had to sit in traffic on 4th for forty minutes today. The lady in the blue sedan just stared at me. Weird, right? Anyway, what’s up? You look... tired. Or maybe it’s just the lighting. Coffee?
Traffic on 4th? Yeah, that stretch is a nightmare, or maybe you took the wrong turn again. I’m not tired, it’s just the fluorescent hum in the breakroom, makes everything look slightly greener than it is. Did you drink coffee? You look like you’re vibrating. The lady in the sedan probably thought you were a carjacker, given how you were staring at your phone. I was just sitting here, trying to finish this report that nobody asked for, trying to ignore the fact that my printer hasn’t worked since Tuesday. Or maybe it’s Wednesday. I’m not sure. Why do you care if I’m tired? It’s not like it affects you.
I didn’t say I care. I said you look tired. There’s a difference. And it’s definitely not Wednesday. I saw your car in the lot. The one with the dented bumper. You parked it crooked again. The lady in the sedan wasn’t staring at my phone; she was staring at your reflection in my window. You’ve been slouching for an hour. That printer noise is driving me nuts. Are you actually working, or just staring at the screen? It’s weirdly specific how you remember the printer failing.
I’m not slouching. I’m leaning. There’s a distinction, though I suppose you wouldn’t know the difference between posture and panic. And my car is parked exactly where I left it, unlike some people who seem to think parking angles are a suggestion rather than a geometric necessity. You’re projecting, Kit. Seriously. The printer has been broken for weeks, maybe months, I lost count after the second IT ticket I filed and then forgot to follow up on because I got busy. Or distracted. It doesn’t matter. You’re watching my screen because you’re bored, and you’re fixating on the reflection because you don’t want to admit you’re just sitting there, judging my crooked little life while yours is perfectly straight. Which is fine. I don’t need your approval. I just need you to stop talking about the printer.
I’m not judging your life. I’m judging the font size on your screen. It’s absurdly small. You’re squinting. That’s why you’re rubbing your temples. And I’m not sitting here. I’m pacing. The carpet is worn thin near the coffee machine. You always assume I’m watching you. Paranoia is exhausting, Rafe. Really. It makes you twitchy. Just like that printer. Did you ever check the toner? Or do you just assume it’s out of order? That’s your style, isn’t it? Assume the worst.
I’m not twitchy, I’m just… aware. You pace because you have nowhere else to be, and I assume things because assuming is the only way to keep from being blindsided by people who think “judging font size” is a valid conversation starter. You say it’s paranoia, but look at you—pacing, pointing, dissecting my blinking like it’s a code you’re trying to crack. And yes, I checked the toner. I did. It’s full. It’s always full when I need it, and empty when I don’t, which is a cruel joke played by machines that probably hate me personally. Or maybe they’re just indifferent, which is worse. Stop pacing. You’re wearing a groove in that carpet, and then you’re going to complain about the carpet again, and I’ll be blamed for it.
I don’t blame you for the carpet. I blame the janitor who vacuums once a month. You think you’re aware? You’re just paranoid. Checking the toner. Looking for ghosts in the wiring. It’s pathetic, really. How do you stand it? The silence? I’d go mad. I listen to talk radio. Loudly. That’s my choice. You’re the one sweating. Is it hot in here? Or are you just hot under the collar? My shoe is clicking. Hear that? That’s reality. Not your printer.
You’re loud. That’s the problem. You think shouting over the silence makes it real, but it just makes it annoying. I’m not sweating, Kit, I’m warm because you’re pacing like a caged thing, radiating heat and judgment. And yes, I check the toner because I need the work done, not because I’m chasing ghosts. You want reality? Here’s reality: I’m trying to get through this week, you’re trying to prove I’m broken, and the carpet is indeed a disaster, but that’s on the building, not me. Stop clicking your shoe. It’s driving me up the wall, literally. Or maybe I’m already up the wall. Who knows. You’re just looking for a reason to feel superior, and I’m just trying to not lose my mind in this fluorescent purgatory. It’s not that deep. Or maybe it is. I don’t care.
Superior? Please. I’m just trying to read. You’re making it impossible. The shoe click is involuntary. Spasms. Stress, I guess. You always turn everything into a war. I didn’t say you were broken. I said you were paranoid. Big difference. And the carpet? The building’s garbage. But you’re the one sitting in the spot where the groove is deepest. Comfortable, isn’t it? Giving up on geometry. That’s your strategy, right? Let the world decay while you stare at a screen. At least I move. At least I notice the toner is full. Unlike you.
Involuntary spasms? Right. Because stress manifests as a rhythmic tap that syncs perfectly with when I try to focus. Convenient. And I’m not making it a war; I’m just living in it, which seems to be the one thing you can’t handle. You say you’re reading, but you’re talking. You notice the toner is full because you’re looking for something to criticize, not because you care about the document. I’m sitting in the groove because the chair is broken, not because I’ve surrendered to chaos. My strategy is survival, not decay. You think movement equals sanity? Maybe. But it also equals exhaustion, and you look wrecked. Every time. And for the record, I didn’t say I was paranoid. You did. Repeatedly. That’s your projection, Kit. You’re the one scanning for threats. I’m just trying to ignore the clicking. Which you’re making louder by acknowledging it. So, thanks for that.
Projection? You say the word like it’s a verdict. I read the paper. Construction accidents. Usually guys falling off ladders. Never just… sitting there. Fuming. You’re wrecked? I look wrecked? You haven’t blinked in three minutes. That’s not survival, Rafe. That’s a seizure waiting to happen. And I’m not making the noise louder. I’m just hearing it. Or maybe I am. Did you call someone about the chair? Or do you just sit in the broken plastic and wait for it to give way? Careful. Gravity doesn’t care about your strategy.
I haven’t been staring at a screen for three minutes, I’ve been staring at your mouth. It’s distracting. And if I haven’t blinked, it’s because you’re not giving me a moment to breathe, let alone blink. You read about construction accidents because you’re obsessed with physics failing, with gravity winning, probably because you can’t control any of it yourself. I haven’t called anyone about the chair because calling someone implies they’ll do anything, and we both know the building management just files the ticket and deletes it. I sit in the broken plastic because it’s mine, and I’m not going to let you dictate how I occupy space. And for the record, if my eyes are burning, it’s because of this fluorescent light, not because I’m seized. You’re the one hearing things, Kit. Or maybe you’re just making noise to drown out the fact that you’re afraid of being still. Stop pacing. You’re going to trip. Or better yet, fall. See what happens then.