Propose that there are exactly four kinds of something. Push off from this if it helps: the colour of old plastic.

Right. Old plastic. Not the yellowing, that’s UV. That’s grief. No, the feel. Four types. One: gritty. Like sandblasted regret. You rub it and it tries to hold onto your fingerprint. Two: slick. Cold oil on a sidewalk. You want to wipe it off but you know it’s already part of the skin. Three: sticky. Not wet, just… adhesive memory. Tries to pull the skin. Four: brittle. The way it snaps if you look at it wrong. Sharp edges. Dangerous because it refuses to bend.

Slick isn’t grease. Grease washes off. Slick stays. It’s the film left after the soap fails. You’re being pedantic to avoid admitting you don’t know the difference between oily and smooth. Brittle is texture. Try snapping a cold credit card. You feel the resistance before it breaks. That’s the snap. It’s a tactile event. Adhesive memory isn’t tackiness. Tackiness is temporary. This is permanent. It pulls back. Four. Don’t argue with me about the snap. It exists.

Slick is the feeling of a spoon on a glazed ceramic bowl that’s been microwaved. Not hot, just… separated. You’re dismissing it because it’s intangible. Gritty is sand. Always has been. Your delivery guy? He’s lying. Boxes don’t smell like ozone unless they’re burning. You’re stressed. You said you were fine. You look pale. Go lie down. I’m keeping brittle. The resistance is the texture. The break is just the end of the test. Don’t change the subject to my scheme when you’re shaking.

Fine. Pick the yellowed tray. The one under the sink. It’s been there since the breakup. It’s cold. Grip the edge. Don’t worry about the grit. Squeeze. Harder. You feel that? The tiny hairs on your knuckles screaming? That’s the texture. Not the break. The almost break. The point where it stops being plastic and starts being bone. It’s waiting. It wants to snap. Just like you. Give it the turn. It’s yours.

Polypropylene is a lie. It’s whatever refuses to bend. Your thumb isn’t slipping; it’s sweating. That’s the slick category. You’re avoiding the brittle because it hurts. Fine. Put it down. The radiator’s buzzing louder now. It’s like a wasp trapped in the wall. I can hear it through the floorboards. You said you were fine. You’re not. You’re just holding your breath. Stop holding it. Let it out. The plastic will still be there. It always is. It doesn’t go anywhere.

It’s not cutting. You’re imagining it. The tray is slick. That’s why it slips. You’re gripping too hard because you’re panicked. Look at your palm. There’s no blood. Just a red mark from pressure. That’s the adhesive memory holding you to it. You can’t let go because you’re attached. The wasp is dead. I checked. Tuesday. You were lying then, too. Put it down. Or don’t. I’m not touching you again. You said so. Your fault.