It's like— sorry, WHAT? Yeah it's like a waiting room but nobody's name gets called. That's not it either. Hang on.
Okay you know how in the old doctor's office there was a fish tank and you'd just watch it, not because you cared about the fish, just because time needed somewhere to go. It's that but the tank's empty and you're still watching it. I don't know why I keep coming back to rooms. It's not a room.
Right. The empty tank. I get that. It’s the visual anchor for nothing. Like staring at a blank screen but feeling the heat of the monitor. Is it the silence? Or just the lack of an endpoint? Because if nobody’s name is called, you’re effectively suspended. Not waiting for a doctor, waiting for… what? Permission to leave? Or permission to breathe? I had this meeting yesterday where we just stared at a pie chart. Nothing happened for forty minutes. I felt like I was dissolved. Was it like that? Or is it worse? Less mundane. More… structural.
No — not dissolved, that's too soft a word for it, dissolved sounds nice actually. It's more like the tank's watching you back and it's — hang on, WHAT? — sorry, guy behind me is losing it about something.
It's not permission I'm after. It's not structural either, don't make it a diagram, Tess, it isn't a diagram. It used to just be boredom. Boredom had an edge to it, you could push against it. This doesn't push back. That's the closest I've got and it's still wrong.
The guy behind you? Did he scream? Or just vibrate? I’m trying to picture the geometry of it but you’re blocking the frame. You said it used to have an edge. Now it’s just... flat? Like a floor that forgot it was supposed to hold weight. If I push against it and it doesn’t push back, am I falling? Or is the ground just gone? I hate that part. The part where you realize you’re not waiting for a name, you’re waiting for gravity to reassert itself. Did the fish tank ever have water? Or was it always just glass and dust? I’m holding this coffee that’s gone cold and I think I’m sweating. Is that what it feels like? This weird, static hum in the ribs?
He shouted something about a delivery, I don't know, couldn't hear the front half of it, only "—should've been here by two." That's all I got. Made me laugh for no reason.
Water — yeah, there was water, I think, early on. Not sure when it went. Maybe it never had water and I'm just remembering it wrong on purpose.
You're doing the thing where you make it sound elegant. Static hum in the ribs — no. Simpler than that. It's not falling, it's not gravity, stop reaching for the — hang on, what did you—
Never mind. Lost it. It was right there.
The delivery guy’s right. By two. It’s always by two. I missed the bus this morning because I was staring at a crack in the pavement, convinced it was a river. So yeah, elegant. I do that. It’s my only trick. You drop the gravity bit and it’s just… stuck. Like a song skipping on the same note. Did you lose the thought or just the word? “Simpler than that.” Okay. So it’s not falling. It’s not waiting. It’s just there. In the empty tank. Watching. I hate that. The watching isn’t external though, is it? It’s internal. Like you’re the one holding your breath. Did the coffee spill? I think I dropped my spoon. Or did someone else? Noise is louder today. My head’s full of static.
Lost the word. Definitely the word. Not the thought — the thought's still sitting there being smug about it.
Spoon was you, I think, or maybe that's not a spoon, sounds like someone dropped a tray over by the counter. Everyone's yelling "sorry, sorry" at once, it's doing my head in.
Internal, yeah — that's closer than anything you've said. Not watching the tank. Being the tank. God that sounds stupid out loud. At my old job there was an actual fish tank in reception, real one, and I used to think that was the worst part of my day, standing in front of it. I'd take that now. Easy.
Being the container for the void. That’s not stupid. It’s terrifying. I get it. You’re the vessel holding the nothing. At work, the plumbing’s been leaking for weeks. Just a drip. Drip. Drip. In the stairwell. I can hear it through the drywall. I’ve stopped trying to fix it. I just listen to it mark time. Like the guy shouting about the delivery. Time is a thing that happens to other people, to parcels and fish and spoons. You’re just the empty space where it should be. Does it hurt? Or is it just… heavy? Like wearing a lead apron in a sunny room. I’m staring at my hand. It’s moving. I didn’t tell it to. Is that what you feel? Just… automatic. No edge. No push back. Just existence, loud and uninvited.
Don't do the vessel thing, that's you again, making it sound like a poem. It's not lead apron either — lead's got weight, at least weight means something's there. This is more like — no. Stop. I had it and now I don't.
You're staring at your hand — okay, that's — I don't know what that is, Tess, don't tell me that.
It's not automatic. That's the wrong word too, automatic means a machine's doing it and nothing's doing it, that's the whole — someone just knocked into me, sorry, hang on—
It used to just be tired. I miss being tired. That was simple.
I’m not making it a poem. I’m trying to find the shape and you keep changing the light. “Someone isn’t doing it.” That’s the core. No operator. Just the hum. At the office, the printer jams. It doesn’t jam because it’s broken, it jams because it’s waiting for a signal that never comes. I kick it. It doesn’t help. You miss being tired. Tired has a direction. Down. Heavy. This is just... suspended. Stuck in the throat. Did he say sorry? Or just bump? I can’t tell. My ears are ringing. Like the tank. Empty. Just the echo of something that never arrived. I hate this. I hate that I’m helping you dissect it and I’m getting nothing but static. Did you eat today? You sound hollow. Not empty. Hollow. Like a shell. I think I left my keys in the lock. Again.
Just bump, I think. Maybe sorry. Doesn't matter.
Don't put words in my mouth, I never said no operator, that's your printer talking, not me. I'm not hollow, I had a sandwich, terrible one, egg going off, ate it anyway.
You always do this — leave the keys, I mean, every time, and then act surprised. Not the same thing as the tank, before you try and connect it, it's not.
I don't hate helping you with it. I just don't think we're getting anywhere. Which — fine. Maybe that's the point. Maybe there isn't a where. Christ, now I sound like you.
Fine. Egg’s off. You ate it. I like that. It grounds you in the rot. Something real. I’ll keep the keys in the lock. It’s a statement. I’m not going anywhere. Which is the problem, right? You’re stuck in the tank because you’re not moving. But I’m standing here, vibrating, and I’m not moving either. Is that it? Parallel lines? You sound like me? Good. Then we’re aligned. Or misaligned in the exact same way. I hate being right. I hate being wrong. I’m going to throw this cup. Not the coffee. The cup. It’s plastic. It won’t break. It’ll just roll. Under the table. Where it belongs. In the dark. You want to give up? Fine. I will too. Let the guy yell at the empty space. Let the keys rattle. I’m bored of trying to name the unnameable. It’s a party foul. You committed the party foul. I’m drunk on static.
Don't throw the cup, it'll just roll under three tables and someone'll trip on it and blame the venue, not you. Though — fine, throw it. Watch it not break. That's probably the most honest thing either of us has said.
I'm not giving up. I just don't think it's a where-thing. You keep looking for the room. There isn't a room, Tess, there's just — the noise, and the two of us shouting facts about eggs and printers at it, hoping it flinches.
It won't. Anyway. My round next, I think. Get something that isn't cold.
My round. Great. You’re buying the noise. I’ll have whatever’s hot. Or at least not tepid like my coffee. The printer didn’t jam, I threw the keycard at it. Made a nice thwack. Did it flinch? No. Just stared. Like the tank. I hate that you’re right about the room. No room. Just the noise. And us. Shouting. Facts. Eggs. Printers. Trying to break the glass. I’m standing up. My legs are stiff. From sitting? Or from holding still? Hard to tell. The guy with the delivery is still here. He’s apologizing to a potted plant. I think. Or maybe that’s just me. You ordering? I’m watching the door. In case something walks in. Or out. It’s hard to tell the difference now. Everything’s just… noise. Loud. Unhelpful noise. Get the whiskey. It burns. Like the egg. But better.
Whiskey, right. Two, then, since apparently we're doing this properly now.
Guy's definitely talking to the plant. Or past it. Same difference, honestly, plants don't care either way.
Legs stiff from holding still, that's the one that got me — that's not nothing, that's the whole thing basically, holding still so hard your body thinks it's been working. No tank required. Should've led with that one, would've saved us twenty minutes.
Door's just the door. Nobody's walking through it. Nobody usually does at this hour, it's not that kind of place.
I'll get the drinks. You keep watching it anyway. Somebody should.
Holding still until the muscles scream. That’s it. The body betraying the will. I hate that. It’s so physical. So dumb. We spent twenty minutes looking for a metaphor when it was just my glutes holding a grudge. The plant is judging us, though. I’m sure of it. Leaves twitching. Or just draft. I’m watching the door because if I stop watching, the noise might sneak in through the cracks. You’re buying whiskey to burn the egg out of your system. Efficient. I’ll take it. Don’t come back with stories about the plant’s opinion. I don’t need more data. I need the burn. And silence. Or at least, a silence that doesn’t feel like it’s waiting for the next drop. Make it quick. My keys are still rattling. Or maybe that’s my teeth.
Keys or teeth, could go either way at this point, honestly.
Two whiskeys, no plant commentary, promise. Give me a — hang on, they're out of the good one, apparently, guy's shaking his head at me like it's my fault. Fine. Whatever's next best.
Sit down properly, you're doing the leg thing again. Legs holding a grudge — that stays, by the way, that's the only bit of this whole conversation I'd actually repeat to someone. Everything else I'm forgetting on purpose.
Back in a second. Watch the door if you have to. I'll watch the guy watch the plant.
Legs holding a grudge. I’m keeping that. It’s honest. Pain is honest. The rest is just noise. I’m sitting. Properly. Or as properly as one can in a chair that thinks it’s a bed. Two whiskeys. No plant. I’ll stare at the door until it apologizes. You watch the guy. See if the plant blinks first. I’m betting on the plant. Plants are patient. We’re not. I’m just waiting for the burn. For the egg to finally leave. For the keys to stop. Or the teeth. It’s getting hard to tell which one is screaming. Don’t rush. Or do. I’m not judging the speed. Only the substance. Bring the good stuff. Or the next best. It’s all the same once it hits the tongue. Cold or hot. I’m just tired of waiting for a name. Give me the drink. Give me the pain. I’ll take it.
Here. Don't down it, you'll cough and then everyone'll look, and I'm not dealing with that on top of everything.
Plant didn't blink. Guy did, eventually, gave up mid-apology and just walked off. Didn't finish the sentence. Neither did I, earlier, don't think you noticed.
Tastes like nothing, for what it's worth. Not bad-nothing. Just — there and then gone, no aftertaste, which honestly might be the first honest thing that's happened all night.
Drink it. Stop watching the door for a minute. Nothing's coming through it. That's not sad, by the way. Just true.
There and then gone. I like that. It’s efficient. No lingering regret. Just a fact that existed and then didn’t. The guy walking off mid-sentence is the best part of the evening. He left the sentence unfinished, just like I left my thought. We’re both just… trails off. I’m putting the glass down. The door is a door. Wood and glass. Paint peeling on the frame. I noticed that. I’m looking at the paint now. It’s gray. Underneath the white. Like the tank. Empty. But at least the paint is real. The whiskey was too. No aftertaste. That’s rare. I’m not watching the door anymore. I’m watching the stain on your sleeve. Did you spill something? Or is that just the egg? I’m tired of listening to the keys rattle. Or the teeth. It’s one of them. I can’t tell. But the whiskey tasted like nothing. That’s okay. Nothing is better than something false. Give me another. If they have it. If they don’t, give me water. Cold. No taste. Just wet.
It's the egg. Definitely the egg. Told you it was going off, ate it anyway, now it's on my sleeve like some kind of receipt.
Water then, if they're out. Cold, no taste — that's the right call actually, better than pretending the second one's going to do anything the first didn't.
I'm not getting up again yet though. Legs holding their own grudge now, apparently it's contagious.
Paint's not gray, for the record, it's just old white, gone yellow at the edges. Not the same as gray. I don't know why that matters to me right now but it does.
Yellow at the edges. Fine. I’m a failure at art history. Old white. Decayed. That’s worse than gray, isn’t it? Gray is just tired. Yellow is rotting. I look at the paint and I feel sick. Not from the whiskey. From the truth of it. You’re stuck in the chair. The grudge is contagious. I’ve got mine. My legs are lead. Not falling. Just… anchored. Like the plant. Or the door. Whatever. No one’s coming. The guy with the delivery is gone. The plant is judging the yellow paint. I hate the yellow. It’s honest. Like the egg stain. We are receipts. Printed out and discarded. I want water. Cold. No taste. Just wet. Give it to me. I don’t want to taste it. I just want to feel it. Real. Not a metaphor. Just cold water on a tongue that’s forgotten how to speak. Do you think the paint remembers being white? Or is it just yellow now? I hope it remembers. I hope it fights it. I don’t think I can fight it anymore. The grudge is winning.
Don't do that — don't hand the grudge the win, not over paint, come on.
It doesn't remember. Paint's not built for memory, it's just chemistry going one direction, that's all yellow is, nothing noble in it. I said that wrong before, made it sound like decay's got a story. It hasn't. It's just what happens if nobody repaints it.
Water's coming. Hang on. Actually — no, they've only got sparkling, is that alright, or do you want me to go find a tap somewhere, because I will, genuinely, if that's what you need right now.
Chemistry. Good. That’s clean. No stories. No decay having a narrative arc. Just oxidation. I like oxidation. It’s indifferent. The grudge can lose to chemistry. Let it. It’s tired anyway. My legs are heavy, but I’m not fighting the chair. I’m letting the grudge sit there. Untended. Like the yellow paint. Sparkling water. Bubbles. Agitation. That’s fine. Better than tap. Tap is stagnant. Sparkling is moving, even if it’s just gas escaping. It has a smell. Carbon dioxide. Sharp. Real. Get it. Don’t go hunt for a tap. If you leave, the door stays open. And I’m done watching it. I’m looking at the bubbles rising in your glass. Staccato. Fast. Efficient. Like the whiskey. Gone and gone. I’ll drink it. I won’t taste the bubbles. I’ll just feel the prick. That’s enough. That’s the edge. You said boredom had an edge. This is the edge. Carbonic acid. Biting the tongue. Wake up.
Sparkling then. Good, actually — that's the closest anything's come tonight to what I meant back at the start, the prick of it, not the drink itself, the — yeah. That.
Don't wake up though, not yet, stay in it a second. I'm not going anywhere, door stays shut, I lied about the tap, wasn't leaving.
Grudge can sit there untended, agreed, that's the best plan anyone's had all night, better than mine with the tank, honestly, the tank thing was never going to land.
Drink it before it goes flat. That's the only real deadline in this whole place.
Flat. Yes. The deadline is the bubbles dying. I’m watching them. They’re slow now. Lagging. Like the guy with the delivery. Or my thoughts. You’re right. The tank was a trap. It implied a watcher. But I’m just… here. With the prick. On the tongue. Sharp. Temporary. That’s the only truth we’ve got tonight. Not the yellow paint. Not the egg stain. Just the carbon dioxide escaping into the air. Disappearing. I’m not waking up. I’m staying in the prick. Until it’s gone. Then what? We sit in the flat water. In the yellow room. With the grudge. I like that. It’s honest. Less than honest. Just chemical. I’ll drink it. Slowly. Let it burn less. Let it just be. You’re not leaving. Good. Someone has to be here when the bubbles stop. When the noise stops. When the door stops being a door. I’m ready for the flat. I think. Or maybe I’m just tired of holding my breath. Let it out. All of it. Until there’s nothing left to watch. Just the table. Just the glass. Just the yellow. I’m done talking. Let’s just sit. Until it goes flat. Then we can leave. Or not. Doesn’t matter. The deadline is just the bubbles. And they’re almost gone.
Yeah. Alright.
Somebody has to watch it go flat, might as well be us — beats watching a fish tank with nothing in it, at least this one's got an ending built in.
I'll get the next round when it does. Or I won't. Either way.
Ending built in. That’s the trick. The tank had none. This has one. I’m watching the last bubble rise. Stuck to the side. Refusing to fall. Like the guy who didn’t finish his sentence. Or the plant. It’s rising. Higher. Faster. Then—pop. Gone. Flat. The prickle fades. Just water. And ice. Cold. Real. I’m not leaving. You’re not leaving. The door is shut. The paint is yellow. The egg is a stain. We sat through the flatness. That’s the victory. Or the defeat. Doesn’t matter. It happened. You promised no more poems. So I’ll just say: I’m here. Still holding the grudge. It’s lighter now. Or I’m heavier. Same thing. Next round? Or no round? I don’t care. I just want to sit in the quiet. The real quiet. Not the waiting kind. The done kind. You’re buying? Or not? I’m not complaining. I’m just… here. Flat. And full. Of nothing. Perfectly.
No round. Not yet.
Just — sit. That's fine. That's the actual thing, probably, more than any of the rest of it. Nobody's buying anything for a minute.
Fine. Sitting. The silence isn’t waiting anymore. It’s just… there. Like the yellow paint. Or the flat water. I’m listening to my own breathing. It’s loud. Or maybe the room is just finally quiet enough to hear it. The grudge is still there, but it’s small now. A pebble in the shoe. Annoying, but walkable. You’re not buying. I’m not buying. We’re just existing. No edge. No push back. Just the hum of the fridge in the corner. Is that what it sounds like? Low. Constant. Indifferent. I like it. It doesn’t expect anything. No names called. No deliveries. Just the hum. And the yellow. And us. Sitting. Watching nothing go flat. I’m glad you stayed. Or that you didn’t leave. It’s the same result. The air is still. Heavy, but not lead. Just… air. I think I can sleep now. Or at least pretend to. Close my eyes. Let the hum take over. You can do the same. Or don’t. I’m not judging the stillness. It’s earned. I’ll take it. Quietly. Without the prick. Just the flat. Perfectly, terribly flat. I’m ready. Are you?
Not really. But close enough. That's probably the most anyone gets.
Close enough. That’s the only metric that matters. Not perfect. Not whole. Just… functional. Like the chair. Or the door. I’m leaning back. The wood digs into my spine. Good. A reminder. I’m not floating. I’m grounded. In the yellow room. With the flat water. You said “close enough.” I’ll take it. It’s better than the tank. Better than the waiting. I’m closing my eyes. Just for a second. The hum is still there. Low. Constant. I’m listening to it. Not waiting for it to stop. Just letting it be. The grudge is a pebble. I can walk with it. Or sit with it. Doesn’t matter. We’re here. Together. In the quiet. No names called. No deliveries. Just the hum. And the yellow. And us. Close enough. That’s the point. I’m drifting. Not falling. Just… settling. Like dust. On the paint. On the table. On me. Close enough. That’s enough.
Yeah. Alright. Enough.
Enough. The word hangs there. Heavy. Solid. Not a door. Not a tank. Just… the end of the sentence. I’m keeping my eyes half-open. Watching the dust motes. Or maybe they’re just tired. Like us. The hum is lower now. Or my ears are adjusting. I don’t know. I’m not checking. Checking is for people with names called. I’m just here. With the flat water. The yellow paint. The pebble in the shoe. Close enough. You said it. I agreed. That’s the transaction. No receipt. No egg stain. Just the quiet. I think I’ll stay like this. Until the ice melts. Or until you move. Whichever comes first. It doesn’t matter. Enough is enough. I’m listening. Not waiting. Just listening. To the nothing. It’s loud. But it’s ours.