Why do you always pick hotels with carpet that looks like it’s fighting a losing battle against its own dye lot? I asked the manager yesterday if the pattern was meant to hide the damp or just the shame. He didn’t answer. I looked at his shoes. Cheap, but shiny. Too shiny. You think he’s running a laundry scheme? Or just that bad at retail? Don’t laugh. I saw a towel roll.
He wasn't running anything. You're inventing drama because the silence gets loud. If he was laundering money, he’d buy better shoes. Those shine is just cheap wax and a panic to look presentable. You’re projecting. Stop staring at the towel roll. It’s just cotton.
Cotton? Sure. Right. I’m just imagining things now. Maybe the towel is a signal. Maybe the wax on those shoes is conductive. You’re so sure. That’s what bothers me. You’re never wrong about the mundane details. It makes you terrifyingly dull. I should stop staring. But if I look away, I might miss the spark. Or the stain. It’s a stain, Pia. It’s definitely a stain. Why are you holding your breath?
I’m not holding my breath. I’m just tired. You always do this. Turn a mundane observation into a parlor trick. It’s exhausting. I wish you’d let the stain be a stain. But you need a conspiracy. You need me to be terrified. So I breathe in. And out. And hope you drop it.
You’re dramatic. It’s a stain. I’ll buy you coffee. Cheap coffee, not that swill you drink. The kind that tastes like burnt asphalt and regret. I need the caffeine. My lower back is killing me. The chair at the office is an insult to ergonomics. I think I sat wrong. Or I’m dying. Probably just wrong. You’re smiling. Stop it. It’s not funny. I’m serious. About the back. Not the towel. Definitely not the towel.
Stop talking about the towel. It’s not funny. My back hurts too. Sitting at that desk all day, staring at spreadsheets that mean nothing. I’m not smiling. I’m grimacing. You’re the one hallucinating signals in bath linens. Drink your asphalt coffee. Please. Just be normal for five minutes.
Normal is a myth sold by people who don’t check the undercarriage of their cars. I drink the coffee. It burns. Good. Keeps you awake. Spreadsheets. Jesus. I looked at your screen yesterday. That pivot table is a mess. You’re filtering by color, Pia. It’s not a layout. It’s chaos. And you’re pretending it’s order. That’s why you’re tired. Because you’re trying to organize garbage. I’m just looking for the pattern in the filth. You hate that I see it. But it’s there. In the threads.
I filter by color because it’s fast. You’re obsessed with hidden meanings. My pivot table is fine. Your back hurts because you slouch. Drink the coffee. Stop analyzing my screen. I see it, okay? I see everything. That’s the problem. Now stop talking.
You see too much. That’s your curse. And my addiction. The coffee’s cold now. Sludge. I’ll pour it out. Watch the stream. It’s dark. Like your eyes when you’re lying about the spreadsheets. I slouch because the chair is broken. Not me. The chair. You’d know if you looked at the base. The wheels are chewed. Like something dragged it. Or hid it. You’re quiet. Too quiet. Are you checking the time? Or just waiting for me to stop breathing?
I’m checking if my bus is late. Stop narrating my existence. The chair is standard issue. The wheels aren’t chewed; they’re worn. It’s plastic, Edie. Not a chew toy. Pour the sludge. Please. I need to get back to the office. The manager is waiting. And he’s not happy.
Worn. Sure. Plastic wears differently than chew marks. You’re leaving? Just like that? The bus is always late. It’s a conspiracy of delays. And the manager? Waiting for what? The spreadsheets? Or the explanation for the towel? I’m not happy either. This coffee is an insult. I’m pouring it out anyway. Watch it go down the drain. Black. Like your mood. You’re rushing. Why? Guilt? Or just fear of the quiet? The chair doesn’t matter. The silence does. And you’re running from it.
I’m rushing because I have a shift at four. Stop psychoanalyzing the bus. The manager wants the inventory count, not your theories about linen. You’re making this harder than it is. Just sit down. Drink the sludge. Let the silence sit. I’m not running. I’m clocking out. There’s a difference.
Four? You’re clocking out at four? That’s early. Unless you’re running away. From the inventory? From the chewed wheels? The sludge is cold. I’m drinking it anyway. Bitter. Like your attitude. You say you’re not running, but you’re already standing up. Your bag is on your shoulder. You’ve been ready for ten minutes. The bus isn’t the problem, Pia. The manager is. Or the silence. Or me. I’m just sitting here. Watching you fidget. It’s pathetic. And fascinating. Don’t go. Stay. Let the bus wait. Let the manager rot.
I’m leaving. The bus driver doesn’t care about your theater. You think you’re interesting, but you’re just loud. Stop fidgeting, I’m not. My bag is packed. Always is. You want to stay in this room with the chewed wheels? Fine. Stay. But don’t expect me to watch you rot. I’ve got rent. And a manager who actually pays.
Rent. Right. The thing that keeps you from screaming. I’m not fidgeting. I’m waiting. For the bus, or for you to realize you left your phone. Or your dignity. Don’t call it theater. It’s observation. You’re the one running. Toward a shift that pays less than this coffee costs. The manager doesn’t pay you, Pia. He exploits you. And you’re grateful for it. That’s the rot. Not the wheels. Not the towel. The fact that you let him. Go on then. Catch the bus. See if it runs. It probably doesn’t.
You’re paranoid. He pays me. Barely, but he pays. I’m not leaving my phone. I’m leaving you. Sit in the silence. It’s what you want. I’m walking out. Don’t follow. And stop analyzing my walk. It’s just walking.
Walking. Right. A distinct lack of sway. You’re stiff. Afraid to move? Or just done with me? The door’s heavy. It’ll slam. Don’t look back. I know you want to. To see if I’m still staring at the towel. Or if I’ve finally cracked. Rent. Management. All of it is just noise. I’ll stay. I like the quiet. And the chewed wheels. They’re honest. Unlike you. Or maybe like you. I don’t know anymore. Go. The bus is late anyway. Always is.
The door won’t slam. It’s broken. I know. I stopped caring weeks ago. You think I’m stiff? Good. Let me be hard. Let me be the thing you can’t read. I’m gone. Don’t wait up. The silence is yours now. Enjoy it. It’s the only thing you’ve got left.
Broken door. Good. Keeps the draft out. Keeps you in. Or out. Whatever. I didn’t follow. Obviously. I’m not a dog. I’m sitting here. The coffee’s cold. The carpet’s damp. I can hear the bus engine idling outside. It sounds like a dying cat. You said you stopped caring weeks ago. Liar. You care about the inventory. You care about the rent. You just hate that I see it. Fine. I’ll enjoy the silence. It’s loud, though. Thumping. Like a heart. Or a clock. Tick. Tock. You’re late, Pia.
I’m not late. I’m just gone. You’re imagining the engine. It’s the pipes. Old building. Thumping pipes. Enjoy your heart. Or your clock. I don’t care. Let it tick until it breaks. Like the door. Like the chair. Like you.
Pipes. Right. The building groans. I know the sound. It’s the radiator, not your ghost. You think you’ve escaped by disappearing into the hallway? Cute. You left your scarf on the chair. The red one. The one that matches the stain. Funny how memory works. You leave parts of yourself behind, hoping I won’t notice. But I did. I picked it up. It smells like panic. And cheap wax. Go ahead. Break the clock. I’ll be here when it stops. Or when you come back for your scarf. You will. Everyone comes back. Eventually.
You’re lying. I didn’t leave a scarf. I’m wearing it. It’s red. You’re seeing things now. That’s what the damp does to the mind. Or the coffee. Take the chair. I’m already at the stop. The bus isn’t a cat. It’s just a bus. And I’m not coming back. Don’t wait for me.
Wearing it? Of course you are. Standing there in the rain, shivering. You think I can’t see you through the window? The glass is fogged, but I know your silhouette. That stiff, angry posture. You’re lying about the scarf, too. It’s not red. It’s gray. You sold it. For rent. I saw the receipt. In your bag. You dropped it. Or I did. Who cares? You’re not at the stop. The stop is empty. You’re still here. Hiding in the bathroom. Or the stairwell. Don’t make me come get you. It’s humiliating. For both of us. Especially you. You hate this. Hating that I know. Hating that I’m right. Go on. Put the scarf back. It’s cold.
I’m not in the bathroom. I’m in the car. You’re hallucinating. The window isn’t fogged. It’s clean. I’m driving. I don’t take the bus. I haven’t taken the bus in years. You’re imagining me shivering. I’m warm. I’m home. Go to sleep, Edie. Or whatever you are.
Car? Since when do you drive? You hate traffic. You said it makes you nauseous. And home? You live in that shoebox apartment with the leaking faucet. I’ve been there. You’re lying. You’re standing in the rain, holding a steering wheel that isn’t there. The window is clean because you wiped it. To hide me. But I see your hand. Trembling. On the wheel. You’re not home, Pia. You’re in the lobby. You’re sitting on the bench by the door. Watching me watch you. Come out. I bought a second coffee. It’s warm. Just like your car. Whatever that is.
I don’t have a car. I never had a car. You’re making it up again. The lobby is empty. The bench is wet. I’m not sitting there. I’m already at work. The manager is yelling. About the inventory. Which you ruined. Go home, Edie. Before I call security. You’re scaring people. Not me. You’re scaring everyone else.