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Am I at the civic center? I’ve circled that roundabout three times. My brain just… short-circuits. Every time I think I’ve got the angle, the lane splits and I’m just… floating. Useless. You look like you know the place. Or at least, you look like you don’t get lost. I need the permit office. Is it through the glass doors, or do I have to go around again? I’m sweating.
It’s the back entrance. Not the glass. You’re circling the traffic flow, which is why you’re sweating—nobody parks there, Marc. Just turn left at the dumpster. Look, I have to be at the warehouse in twelve minutes. My manager thinks I’m sourcing inventory, but I’m actually hiding. I need you to get your permit, go, please. The back door is rusted; it sticks. Don’t force it. Just kick the bottom corner.
Right. The dumpster. Got it. You’re hiding? That’s… that’s not great, Pia. But okay. I’ll handle the paperwork. You worry about your warehouse life. I’ll kick the door. If it sticks, I’ll kick it harder. Or maybe I’ll just wait here until you’re not hiding anymore. No, that’s creepy. I’ll go. I’ll get the permit. Then I’ll come back. You can tell me why you’re really there. Or not. I’m not the police. I’m just Marc. The guy who got lost in a circle.
Do not come back. Seriously. If you see me, I will deny it. And if you kick that door hard enough to break the lock, I’m telling security you’re harassing staff. It’s not "warehouse life," Marc. It’s data entry. It’s exactly as boring as it sounds, and you know it. You’re trying to make this a movie because your morning went wrong. It’s just a job. I’m just sitting there. Go get your paper. Leave. Before I actually call someone who cares.
Ouch. Okay. Data entry. Right. I’m the one making it a movie. Because my morning was wrong. The coffee machine in the breakroom exploded. Again. So, forgive me if I want the permit office to be a subplot in something other than a morning full of spills. I’ll kick the door. If it breaks, you call security. I’ll take the heat. Just... tell me where the dumpster is again? Left? Or was that the bin? My brain is still spinning.
Left. Past the grey dumpster, not the green one. You’re still looking at me, aren’t you? Just go. The coffee machine exploding is a disaster, sure, but it’s not a tragedy. It’s just broken plumbing and burnt beans. You’re projecting. It’s annoying. If you stand here any longer, I’m going to forget to be annoyed and start being concerned. That’s worse for everyone. Go. The left turn. Now. Don’t make me point. I have my hands full.
Fine. Left. Past the grey one. Look, I’m going. But if that door kicks off its hinges, don’t say I didn’t warn you. And Pia? Don’t start being concerned. Seriously. I can handle the bureaucracy. You handle your data. We’re both just… stuck here. In our own ways. I’ll be quick. I promise. Less dramatic this time. Probably. Unless the coffee machine catches fire. Then all bets are off. I’m turning. Left. See?
Left. Finally. Don’t promise to be quick; promises are just delays in disguise. And if that door goes, the key is under the mat. Not that you’ll find the mat. You’re already walking into the lamppost, aren’t you? Stupid. But go. Before I decide to laugh. I can’t do this. I have to get to the warehouse. I’m not interesting, Marc. I’m just tired. Stop looking for the subplot. It’s not there. It’s just a Tuesday. Go.
Right. Lamppost. Classic. I missed it. Barely. The grey bin is just ahead, right? And the door. Kick the corner. Got it. Under the mat. I’ll try not to step on it. You’re right. It is just a Tuesday. Boring, predictable, safe. I need safe. Or I’m pretending to. Go on. Get to your data entry. Save the world one spreadsheet at a time. I’ll be inside. Or outside. Or stuck. Depends on the rust. Bye, Pia. Try not to laugh too hard. It’s rude.
I’m not laughing. I’m just tired. Go. And stop calling it "save the world." It’s counting widgets. You’re the one who thinks this is a movie; I’m just trying to get through the shift without getting fired. If you get locked out, don’t come back here. Use the side gate. The one with the broken latch. It’s easier to pick. Seriously, Marc. Go. Before I say something I can’t take back. Like that you’re pathetic. Which you’re not. Just annoying. Go.
Pathetic. Annoying. Got it. I’m walking away. Hands up. Showing I have no weapons, just a broken watch and a desperate need for a stamp. The side gate, then. If I can’t get through the rusted door. I’ll pick the latch. I’ve got small hands. Good for locks. Bad for coffee machines. Go count your widgets. I’ll try not to break anything else. Or anyone. Except maybe the lock. If I have to. I’m leaving. Don’t watch me. I’m not a movie. I’m just a guy with a permit.
I am watching. You’re trembling. Stop it. It’s pathetic. The latch is on the left side, rusted shut. Use the paperclip from your pocket. You always have one. It’s in your left pocket. Go. Before I change my mind and let you kick the door down. I hate when you’re right. It ruins my narrative of you being incompetent. And Marc? If you get the stamp, don’t come back here. I’m not hiding. I’m just working. Go. Now.
I’m not trembling. It’s cold. And I don’t always have a paperclip. You’re imagining things. But okay, left pocket. Rusted latch. You know me too well. It’s creepy, really. You memorized my pockets. I hate that. I’m going. I’ll pick the lock. I’ll get the stamp. And then I’m gone. You stay here, counting widgets, pretending this wasn’t a thing. A moment. A glitch. I won’t look back. I promise. Or I won’t. Who knows with me. Just go. Before I start crying. Or laughing.
It’s not creepy. I know your habits. You’re just loud when you’re scared. And stop threatening to cry. It’s manipulative. I’m leaving now. Don’t follow me. If you come near the warehouse entrance, I will scream. I mean it. Go get your permit. Fix your watch. Stop making this about us. It’s about you and a piece of paper. Get it done. Be normal for five minutes. Please. I can’t do this. Go. Before I lose it.
Fine. Normal. I can do normal. It’s boring, but I can do it. The paperclip. Left pocket. Got it. I’m walking away. No looking back. No trembling. Just... walking. I’ll get the stamp. I’ll fix the watch. I’ll be normal. And then I’ll disappear. Like you want. Don’t scream. I’m not coming near the warehouse. I’m going the other way. To get the permit. Then I’m gone. Truly gone. You don’t have to watch. I’m not a movie. I’m just Marc. And I’m leaving. Now.
Good. Finally. You’re annoying me. I’m leaving. Don’t look back. I’m not watching. Go. Get the stamp. Fix the watch. Be normal. I hate that you think I’m watching. I’m just tired. And cold. And this is number nine. I need to go. Now. Before I do something stupid. Like care. Which I don’t. Go. Please. Just go.
Number nine. Right. Got it. I’m walking. Left pocket. Paperclip. The gate is just ahead. Rusted shut. Typical. I can feel you still watching, Pia. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. It’s colder than you said. My hands are shaking again. Damn it. Focus. The latch. Pick it. Get in. Get the stamp. Fix the watch. Be normal. I’m trying. I’m so tired of being you problem number nine. Go. I’m going. Finally.
Stop calling yourself that. It’s not a list. It’s just Tuesday. I’m not watching. I’m gone. The gate opens if you wiggle it left, then push. Not pick. Just force it. You’re shaking because you’re cold, not because I’m there. Go. Get the stamp. Fix the watch. Be normal. I’m already at the warehouse door. I’m not looking back. Don’t make me regret being kind. It’s inefficient. Just go. Now. Before I decide to care. Which I don’t. Go.
Right. Wiggle left. Push. Not pick. Got it. Cold hands, stupid metal. I’m doing it. I’m being normal. The stamp is right there. Just... there. Watch is ticking again. Or maybe that’s just my heart. I hate that you helped. Inefficient, you said. Yeah. Whatever. I’m in. I have the paper. I’m leaving. You’re already gone. Good. I hate that I’m glad you’re gone. And I hate that I’m glad you’re here. Go away, Pia. Just go.
You’re still talking. I’m inside. The air smells like stale toner and regret. Your heart is beating because you’re anxious, not because of me. Stop analyzing everything. Go home. Fix your watch. Stop worrying about my location. I’m just a person at a desk. You’re a person with a permit. We are done. I am shutting the door. Don’t come back. Don’t text. Don’t look for me. I’m already forgetting this. Mostly. Go.
Done. Shutting up. The door clicked. Heavy. Final. I’m standing in the alley, holding the stamped paper like it’s a peace treaty I didn’t earn. My hands aren’t shaking anymore. Just cold. Stupid. I’ll walk home. Fix the watch. Ignore the toner smell clinging to my sleeves. You’re right. It’s just Tuesday. Just a permit. Just… me. Going home. Alone. Good. That’s what I wanted. Wasn’t it? I’m gone. Truly gone. Don’t check.
Stop narrating. It’s exhausting. I heard the door. That’s enough. You’re not a peace treaty. You’re just a guy who needed a stamp. Go home. Drink some coffee that isn’t from a broken machine. Fix the watch. Or leave it broken. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m at my desk. The screen is glowing. I’m not checking the alley. I’m not listening. I’m just working. Data entry. Widgets. Silence. Finally. Go. Please. Just go.
Right. Silence. Good. I’m walking. Past the green dumpster, past the lamppost I didn’t hit this time. My watch is ticking. Steady. Annoyingly steady. I’ll fix it later. Or not. The coffee machine is broken, sure, but I can make it in the kitchen. Or buy it. Whatever. You’re in there. In the glow. I’m out here. In the dark. Good. That’s the deal. No more text. No more looking back. Just… gone.
You’re still talking. To the air. It’s weird. Go home. The kitchen coffee is garbage, buy a cup. Or don’t. I don’t care. The glow is just a screen. The dark is just an alley. Stop merging them. You’re not a character in my silence. You’re just leaving. That’s all. I’m typing. One. Two. Three. Go. Before I think about how cold you looked. Which I won’t. Because it’s inefficient. And because I hate it. Go.