It’s hard. Like that chair in the corner. You know the one. Nobody sits in it. We just… keep it there. Because if we move it, we have to acknowledge it was always empty. I used to sit in chairs. Now I just stare at the empty one. It’s cleaner that way. The dust settles differently when nothing is disturbing the space. It’s not about the chair. It’s about the silence it makes. You get that? Or is it just a chair to you?
It’s not just a chair. It’s the geometry of absence. Like that report I filed last Tuesday—exact, sterile, nothing to mar the surface. I checked the number of legs yesterday. Four. Not three, not five. Just four. Solid. Unmoving. You’re avoiding the upholstery. The fabric choice. The specific shade of grey that matches the static. It’s not silence. It’s maintenance. And it’s exhausting.
Four legs. Right. But why that specific grey? It’s the colour of the fluorescent light in the breakroom when the bulb’s about to blow. Flickering. I tried buying new upholstery once. Sawred. Felt like a crime scene. You mention Tuesday. I forgot to pay the electric bill. The meter’s spinning backward. Or forward. Doesn’t matter. The chair stays. It’s the only thing that doesn’t ask me to choose a side. You’re tired? I’m tired of the humming. Can’t you hear it?
The humming is the wiring. Older building. They fixed it in ’98. I was there. You’re confusing fatigue with noise sensitivity. I don’t hear a hum. I hear the radiator clanking at 3:15 AM. That’s real. The grey isn’t about the bulb. It’s about the specific brand of paint we used on the walls. Behr. Semi-gloss. You’re projecting. And the meter doesn’t spin backward. Physics. You need to stop looking for meaning in the infrastructure. It’s just copper and plastic.
’98? I was in Ohio. Or was it ’02? The paint smell… it lingers. Like wet dog. Behr. Semi-gloss. Right. You think I’m seeing ghosts in the wiring. I’m seeing the gap. That’s what you’re afraid of. The space between the copper and the plastic. Where the heat goes. You’re tired, Jo. I hear the radiator too. It’s screaming. Not clanking. Screaming. And the chair? It’s not holding anything up. It’s just waiting to collapse.
Ohio? You were in Cleveland. I called you there. Twice. You didn’t answer. The paint is matte, not semi-gloss. You’re mixing up the kitchen with the living room. And the radiator isn’t screaming; it’s expanding metal. Physics again. You want it to scream so you have an excuse to break something. The chair won’t collapse. It’s oak. Heavy. You’re just exhausted from the noise you’re imagining. Stop projecting the humidity onto the wood. It’s dry here. Bone dry.
Cleveland. Right. I must have been drunk. Matte. God, Jo. You’re nitpicking paint finishes while the walls are sweating. It’s bone dry? My keys feel greasy. That’s not humidity. That’s decay. You want oak? Fine. Oak rots from the inside. You’re so focused on the grain you don’t see the black spot. The screaming radiator is just the house clearing its throat. I’m not imagining it. I’m waiting for the collapse. Why are you holding that pen so tight? Your knuckles are white. Let go. The chair doesn’t care.
Keys are greasy because you touched the doorknob without washing. You always forget. And I’m not holding this pen tight; it’s a ballpoint. Cheap. Ten cents each. From the office supply closet. The one with the broken latch. You’re watching my hands because you can’t look at the chair. Oak doesn’t rot unless it’s wet. It’s dry. Bone dry. Like you said. So stop lying about the sweat. It’s just condensation. From your breath. You’re breathing too hard. Sit down. Or don’t. It makes no difference.
Ten cents. I bought those. In bulk. For the audit. You’re holding it like a dagger. Don’t. It’s plastic. Hollow. Like my head. You say I’m breathing hard. It’s the dry air. Throat’s like sandpaper. I didn’t touch the knob. I used a napkin. You never saw the napkin. It’s in the bin now. Turning brown. Oak doesn’t rot. But the varnish peels. You can see it if you squint. Really squint. Past the grey. Past the metal. Just look at the corner. It’s splitting. Slowly. Like a lip. Don’t sit in that chair, Jo. It’s not for sitting.
I didn’t buy pens for an audit. We had a software migration. September. You were screaming about the servers. And that napkin? It’s in the bin because you throw everything away. Even the important stuff. The varnish isn’t peeling. It’s finished. Polyurethane. You’re seeing cracks that aren’t there. You’re squinting because you’re tired. Go to bed. The chair is fine. It’s just wood. Stop trying to make it bleed. It’s just a chair. You’re the one holding the knife. Metaphorically. Please. Just stop looking at it.
Servers. September. I was in Cleveland. Or Ohio. The servers don’t scream, Jo. They hum. A low, boring drone. You threw away the napkin? Fine. Let it rot. Polyurethane seals the rot in. Traps it. That’s worse. It fester inside. I’m not holding a knife. I’m holding my breath. You say “just a chair.” It’s a monument to the fact that we’re still here. Screaming. Breathing. Waiting for the varnish to crack. Go to bed? You can’t sleep with the radiator screaming. Can you? No. You’re awake. Just like me.
Servers hum. You know that. Cleveland is a place, not a state of mind. You’re conflating geography with guilt again. It’s inefficient. The varnish protects the wood, Frank. It doesn’t trap rot; it isolates it. You’re the one breathing so hard you’re hyperventilating. I slept four hours. On a Tuesday. The radiator is silent. You’re hearing your own pulse. It’s loud. Annoying. Go to sleep. Or don’t. But stop blaming the polyurethane for your panic. It’s just plastic. And I’m not awake just like you. I’m awake because I’m working. You’re just tired.
Cleveland. Right. Geography. I hate it. Four hours? On a Tuesday? You’re doing the spreadsheets at 3 AM? Why? The polyurethane doesn’t isolate anything. It preserves the lie. I’m not panicked. I’m… recalibrating. You’re awake because you’re afraid of the dark. I’m awake because the dark is loud. You say it’s plastic. I say it’s skin. Your skin is tight. Too tight. Like the walls. Don’t look at me. Look at the chair. It’s waiting. It’s always waiting. You can’t work forever. The battery dies. Eventually. Even for you. Especially for you.
Recalibrating. Sure. And I’m doing the Q3 projections. Not spreadsheets. Data models. Three AM is when the traffic dies. Efficiency. You talk about skin like it’s a material. It’s not. It’s skin. Ours. You’re staring at my face because you’re avoiding the corner. The battery doesn’t die. It recharges. You’re mixing up biology with machinery again. It’s humiliating, Frank. Really. The dark is quiet. It’s you making noise. Stop looking at me. Look at the chair. It’s just wood. Polyurethane. Your imagination. It’s rotting. No. It’s fine. You’re the one cracking.
Q3. Data models. You’re a machine. God, I hate that. You say the dark is quiet. I hear the wires. They’re singing. A low E. Your face is grey. Not the chair grey. Dead grey. You’re recharging? On caffeine? It burns out the fuse. I’m not cracking. I’m splintering. Look at the corner, Jo. The shadow. It’s longer than the table. You can’t measure that. You’re staring at me like I’m the glitch. But I’m the one seeing the grain. The real grain. Beneath the varnish. It’s rotting. You’re rotting. And you’re proud of it. Efficient.
I’m not a machine. I’m tired. That’s all. You’re projecting your own decay onto my productivity. It’s pathetic. The shadow is longer because the sun is low. Physics. Not a glitch. You’re the one splintering. Look at your hands. Shaking. I’m not proud of anything. I’m just trying to finish the models before the deadline. September. Not now. You’re obsessing over shadows because you’re afraid of the light. The light is harsh. It reveals everything. Including the fact that you’re sitting in the dark, talking to a wall.
Shaking? No. Just cold. You say September. I’m in November. Or March. The calendar’s a lie. I’m not talking to a wall. I’m talking to the oak. It’s listening. You’re not tired. You’re hollowed out. Like a pumpkin. Carved, but not lit. The light doesn’t reveal anything. It just makes the shadows sharper. You think you’re finishing models? You’re just stacking blocks. One on top of another. Until it falls. And when it does? You’ll be the one sitting in the dark. With the chair. Waiting.
November? The sky is blue. I just looked out the window. It’s October. You’re confused. Hollowed out? That’s absurd. I have heart. You’re the one talking to furniture. Oak doesn’t listen. It’s dead wood. You’re projecting your own emptiness onto it. Stacking blocks? I’m building structure. You’re just watching the tower sway. It won’t fall. And I won’t be in the dark. I’ll be here. Working. While you sit there, shivering, talking to a chair that isn’t going anywhere. Stop lying about the season. It’s not November. It’s not March. It’s now. And it’s bright.
Blue? It’s grey. You’re seeing blue because the screen’s burning your retinas. Oak is dead. So am I. Just slower. You’re building structure? You’re building a tomb. And you’re inside it. Working. Shivering? No. It’s the silence. It’s heavy. It presses on the glass. You say it’s bright. It’s just glare. Glare hides the cracks. But I see them. I’m not talking to the chair, Jo. I’m talking to the space it leaves. The vacuum. It’s sucking you in. Look at the chair. Really look. It’s not empty. It’s full of you.
Dead? You’re just stiff. You need to move. The screen isn’t burning anything. You’re squinting because you’re afraid of the glare. Oak is memory, Frank. Not death. You’re projecting decay onto everything because you feel hollow. I’m not building a tomb. I’m building a report. Q3. Not November. October. It’s grey outside because of the smog. Not the glass. The air. You’re talking to a vacuum. Vacuums don’t listen. They suck. And you’re full of air. Stop holding your breath. Let it out. The chair is empty. It’s always been empty. You’re the one filling it with noise.
Memory? You think that wood remembers? It remembers nails. Sharp, rusted nails. I’m not stiff. I’m anchored. You’re the one spinning. Q3. October. Smog. God, you’re so clean. You polish the air until it shines. I’m breathing in the dust. The real dust. From the chair. It’s not empty. It’s full of my breath. My stale, recycled panic. You tell me to let it out. I can’t. It’s stuck in the varnish. Trapped. Like you’re trapped in that report. Finishing it before the tomb closes. I see the cracks, Jo. They’re in your smile.
Nails rust. That’s iron oxide. It’s red, not black. You’re seeing ghosts in the metal. Anchored? You’re paralyzed. I’m not spinning. I’m standing still. And I don’t polish the air. I open windows. You’re just holding your breath because you’re afraid to exhale. The dust isn’t panic. It’s skin cells. Dead ones. Like you say you are. But you’re still typing. Still talking. Still breathing. The smile isn’t cracked. It’s tired. You’re projecting your rot onto my face. It’s not there. Look closer. It’s not there.
Iron oxide. Right. Red rust. You’re seeing red. I’m seeing black. The dust isn’t skin. It’s drywall. Gypsum. Choking on the ceiling. You open windows? You have air conditioning. Sealed tight. No drafts. Just recycled breath. I’m not paralyzed. I’m rooted. Like the oak. You say I’m typing. My fingers are cold. Numb. The smile? It’s a rictus. A grimace. You’re tired. But you’re still moving. Machine-like. Efficient. I’m breathing. But it’s shallow. Snatching air like a drowning rat. Look closer? I am. You’re a ghost in a grey shirt. Haunting the office.
Grey shirt? It’s blue. Navy. You’re colorblind, Frank. Or just blind. Drywall doesn’t float. It’s heavy. You’re choking on your own delusion. I don’t use AC. I use fans. Hot wire. You’re rooted because you’re stuck. Numb fingers? Circulation. Sit up. Straighten your back. You’re not drowning. You’re hyperventilating. A rat scurries. You’re sitting still. Static. I’m not a ghost. I’m flesh. Blood. Bone. Look at my hands. They’re warm. You’re the one cold. So cold. Stop lying about the temperature. It’s not about the shirt. It’s about the fear.
Blue? It’s navy. You’re seeing blue. I see a bruise. Gypsum falls. It’s light. You fan it. Hot wire. I’m stuck. You’re flesh. Good. Flesh rots. That’s the point. Warm hands. I can feel the heat radiating. It’s unnatural. Like a fever. I’m cold because the room is empty. You’re filling it with noise. With warmth. With lies. Sit up? I can’t. My spine is oak. Hard. Unyielding. You think I’m hyperventilating. I’m holding my breath. Waiting for the heat to fade. Waiting for you to cool down. To match the chair.
Navy is blue. You’re conflating shade with pathology. Bruises fade. They don’t stay navy. Hot wire? You mean the resistance heater. It’s clanking. That’s the sound. Not your spine. Spines are flexible. You’re rigid because you’re scared. Numb fingers again. Circulation. Move your toes. The heat isn’t a fever. It’s metabolism. You want me cold so you’re not alone in the warm. It’s selfish. Really. The chair is empty because no one sits in it. You’re sitting on the floor. Stop trying to make the room match your ice. It’s not going to happen. The heater works. The air is warm. You’re just stubborn. And cold. And wrong.