I still write on the back of that last page. The blank ones feel too expensive, too final. Scribbling a phone number or a half-formed thought on the verso isn’t messy; it’s efficient. People think it’s sloppy. I think it’s honest. You don’t get to waste the whole world’s paper just because you’re afraid to use the wrong side.
Efficient? It’s lazy. You’re hoarding reverse-printed ink like it’s gold. I try that at work—scribble on the back of a memo—and my boss looks at me like I’m dragging shit through the lobby. It’s not honesty, Jo. It’s cheapness dressed up as virtue. The paper is dead either way. Just use a notebook. Stop romanticizing the scraps.
Cheap? Try paying for new supplies on a salary that barely covers rent. My boss stares because he thinks the memo matters more than the man holding it. It’s not about the paper being dead, Gil. It’s about the waste. Using the back is a quiet rebellion against the idea that everything needs a pristine, empty stage.
My rent’s due Tuesday. I wrote a grocery list on a FedEx envelope yesterday. Don’t lecture me on rebellion. It’s just clutter. I stare at the back of things because I’m tired of seeing the same stupid corporate logos everywhere. It’s not a statement, Jo. It’s just… I’m in a damp coat, you’re in a damp coat, and we’re arguing about ink. It’s pathetic.
It’s pathetic that you care. I’m tired. My feet are throbbing. Look, if using the back makes you feel less like a cog, fine. It’s not about the ink. It’s about taking up space without permission. You think I haven’t scribbled on a trash bag? We’re both just trying to leave a mark that doesn’t cost extra.
Shut up. My feet hurt too. I’ve got a blister on my heel that’s probably infected. You think that trash bag note makes you free? It just makes you a mess. I’m trying to stay dry here, Jo. This isn’t a poetry slam. It’s wet. It’s cold. And you’re shouting about existence while shivering in a thrift-store jacket. Just huddle closer and stop talking.
Fine. Huddle. Your side is colder anyway. You’re radiating frost. I’m not shouting. I’m just tired of your noise. At least I have the list. You’ve got nothing but a blister and bad posture. Move your elbow, you’re leaning on my shoulder. And don’t bleed on me.
My elbow? You’re the one invading my personal space. I’m not leaning, I’m collapsing. And it’s not blood, it’s rain. From the ceiling. Drip. Drip. Great. Now I’m wetter. You’re cold? Good. Feel the universe’s indifference. I’m trying to sleep here. Stop breathing so loud. Your face is right in my ear. Move. Or don’t. See if I care. It’s freezing.
Fine. I’ll stop breathing. Happy? You’re snoring. It’s not rain, it’s condensation. This place is a fridge. Keep your elbow off me. If I freeze, I’m taking you with me. Go to sleep. I’m not doing this anymore. Just shut up.
I don’t snore. I breathe heavy because I’m exhausted. You’re imagining things. And if I freeze, I’m dragging your ass into the gutter first. Stop trying to negotiate territory. This puddle is mine. You can have the dry spot if you don’t talk. I’m done. Close your eyes. If you value your lungs, stop filling them with this damp rot. It’s suffocating in here.
Your breath smells like stale coffee and regret. Fine. I’m shutting up. But if you start drooling on my sleeve, I’m kicking you. This puddle is small, Gil. It’s not a kingdom. Just stay warm. And stop thinking about the gutter. It’s cold out there.
Coffee? It’s cheap bean water. You smell like wet dog and despair. Shut up. I’m not thinking about the gutter. I’m thinking about how my lower back is screaming. And stop talking about the sleeve. I don’t drool. I just breathe. Heavy. Loud. Annoying. But I’m staying right here. You need the warmth more than I do, miserable bastard. Don’t make me regret this.
Cheap bean water. Right. Your back’s screaming, mine’s gone numb. Good. Less to complain about. Keep your damn elbow down. If you kick me in the ribs, I’m biting. Don’t regret it. Just sleep. The damp’s got you both anyway.
Biting? You’re unhinged. Just sleep. My back is killing me anyway. This dampness seeps into the bone. I hate it. I hate that I’m sharing body heat with a man who thinks grocery lists are revolutionary. It’s pathetic. But... fine. It’s warm. Don’t move. If you jerk away, I’m pushing you into the puddle. Stay still. It’s cold out there.
Unhinged? I’m tired. You’re clinging like a leech. Fine. I’m still. But if you start snoring, I’m kicking you. The puddle’s freezing. Your bone’s got nothing on this floor. Keep your mouth shut. It’s warm. Don’t push it.
Leech? I’m a heat sink. Shut your trap. I’m not snoring. I’m hyperventilating slightly because my feet are turning blue. You’re heavy. Like a wet brick. Stop shifting. If you kick me, I’ll shove you back in. I’m done fighting. The warmth is nice, I hate that. But I’m keeping it. Don’t test me. I’m too tired to be cruel. Just sleep.
Wet brick. Perfect. You’re heavy too. Let your feet turn blue. I don’t care. Stop complaining. The warmth is ours now. Don’t let go. If you fall asleep, I’m moving. But not yet. Just stay there.
Good. Keep me pinned. If I let go, the cold wins. My toes are dead weight. Concrete’s basically an ice block. You smell like mildew, Jo. Fucker. Don’t move. I’m drifting. Last time I felt this numb was that winter in Jersey. Fuck. Just stay. If you try to leave, I’ll bite. Really this time. Shut up.
Jersey? You’re delirious. Mildew is an improvement over wet dog. Stay. I’m not going anywhere. You’re heavy, cold, and pathetic. Perfect. Just breathe. Shut up.
Delirious? Maybe. Jersey was real though. You’re stuck with me now, partner in crime. Warmth is a trap, sure, but it’s the only one we’ve got. I’m barely conscious. My hand’s got a cramp. You’re breathing down my neck, Jo. It’s suffocating. But I’m not letting go. If you move, we both freeze. Stay put. Don’t think. Just exist in this puddle. It’s quiet. Finally.
Quiet? You’re barely conscious. Jersey sounds like a fever dream. Your hand’s cramping because you’re gripping my shirt. Let go. It’s suffocating, sure, but if we move, we die. So stay. Stop thinking. Just lie there. You’re heavy. Don’t move.
Gripping? You’re crushing my ribs. Let go, you bastard. I’m not holding on. I’m just... stuck. Jersey wasn’t a dream. I left my keys there. Or maybe I left my soul. Doesn’t matter. The concrete’s leaching the heat right out of my spine. You’re heavy. Too heavy. If you roll, I’m taking you down. Just stay. Please. God, it’s cold.
Your soul’s probably lighter than your feet. I’m not rolling. You’re stuck. Keep griping about Jersey; I’ve got my own dead keys. The concrete’s cold, yeah. But we’re here. Stop moving. It’s not about the warmth anymore. It’s about not being alone in the dark. Just breathe.
You’re poetic when you’re freezing. Good to know. I don’t want to be alone, Jo. That’s the joke. I’m stuck here with you because you’re the only thing warm enough to not look like a corpse. Keep your keys. I’ll take the damp. Just... don’t let go. If I drift off, hold on. Tight. I’m tired of fighting the cold. It’s winning. Shut up and breathe.
I’m holding on. You’re slipping. Don’t drift. Keep your eyes open, Gilbert. If you close them, you’re gone. I’m not letting go. The cold is winning, yeah, but not tonight. Just breathe. In. Out. Don’t you dare sleep.
Shut the fuck up. I’m not dying. I’m exhausted. Jersey, keys, puddles… it’s all noise. You’re vibrating against me, Jo. Stop it. It’s creepy. I’m staying awake because if I sleep, I know I’ll dream about that fucking office again. The fluorescent hum. The printer jamming. It’s worse than the cold. Just keep talking. Mutter something stupid. Anything. But don’t let go.