It's done now, either way. Chair's staying where it is, by the window — nobody's going to sit in it but I'm not moving it again, my back can't take another rearrange.
You'd have kept the table under the good light instead, I know. It's fine. It's just a table.
You say that like it’s a consolation prize. “It’s just a table.” Please. You spent twenty minutes aligning the grain with the sun, Nell. I watched you. You treated that plywood like it was marble. And now you’re pretending you don’t care because I got my way? No, you’re just bitter. Your back hurts, sure, but your pride hurts more. I’m not letting you have the light. You glare at the window all day anyway. It’s better this way. Less drama. Now stop pouting and pass me the wrench. You’re holding it wrong again.
I'm not holding it wrong, I'm holding it the way I always hold it, you just like saying that. And fine — twenty minutes, maybe. Doesn't mean I lost anything. It means I noticed the light, which is more than you did before you moved the table.
Here. Wrench. Mind the — no, the other end, that's the torque side.
I don't glare at the window. I look out it. There's a difference, though I don't expect you to grant me that one either, given the mood you're in about winning.
I’m in a mood about winning? That’s rich. You’re the one talking about light and views like they’re personality traits. And yes, I like saying it’s wrong because it’s always wrong when you think you’re smarter than the hardware. Hand it here. Careful. You always fumble the torque side when you’re distracted. “Mind the…” mind what? Your pride? Stop looking out that window. It’s just brick and a gutter. There’s nothing there but grey. You stare at it waiting for a sign, but all you get is rain. Just like this table. It’s got no soul, Nell. It’s wood and nails. Stop trying to give it one.
It wasn't a sign I was waiting for, it was just the bus, actually, the 4:40, which you'd know if you were ever here at 4:40 instead of always turning up after.
And I'm not distracted, I'm careful, there's a difference, same as look versus glare. You keep collapsing distinctions like that's cleverness.
Brick and a gutter. Fine. It used to be worth looking at, back before they redid the building next door — you could see clean down the alley to the water. Now it's just what you said. Grey. Doesn't mean I invented the wanting to look.
Give me the wrench properly this time.
Right. “Careful.” Because your hands shake when you’re trying to prove a point about buses. I’m not shaking. I’m holding the wrench so it doesn’t fall on your foot, which is where you always drop things when you’re monologuing about the 4:40. You weren’t waiting for a view, Nell, you were waiting for a break in the routine. And now you’re mad I broke it by moving the table. Classic.
Take it. Firm grip. Yes, that way. Don’t look at me like I stole your soul. It’s a bolt. It’s not going to bend if you stop treating it like a relic. Just turn it. Clockwise. You’re overthinking the torque again. Stop it.
I'm not overthinking it, I'm turning it — clockwise, I know which way clockwise is, I've done this bolt before, this exact bolt, when the table was somewhere else entirely and neither of us was arguing about grey brick.
That's the part you skip over. It wasn't always this. There was a stretch where you'd hand me the wrench and not narrate every turn of it like I was going to strip the thread out of spite.
Don't stand there watching my wrist like it's a courtroom. Bolt's fine. I'm fine. Go check the other leg, it's wobbling worse than mine ever did.
“Neither of us was arguing about grey brick.” That’s not an argument, that’s a confession. You miss the blur. You miss when I didn’t feel the need to narrate your every twitch because I wasn’t waiting for you to slip up. And now you’re defending a bolt like it’s a memory of us before the contract. Before the chair.
I’m not watching your wrist for spite, Nell. I’m watching it because you’re trembling. Stop it. It’s pathetic. The other leg isn’t wobbling worse; it’s just less interesting. Go check it. And leave the wrench. I’m tired of your grip. You’re suffocating the moment. It’s just furniture. Stop treating it like a shrine. Turn the damn thing. I’m not asking twice.
I'm giving you the wrench, there — take it, I'm not fighting you for a spanner, that's beneath both of us.
And no. Don't do that thing where you drag in a word like contract like it explains the table, the chair, my hands, all of it in one go. It doesn't. It's a wobbly leg. I'll check it because it needs checking, not because you told me twice.
Turn the damn thing yourself if you're so sure of clockwise. I'm going to look at the gutter for a minute. Not for a sign. Just because it's there and it's not asking me anything.
Gutter. Right. Because staring at rusted metal is safer than admitting you’re tired of my voice. You think if you look away, the wobble disappears? It doesn’t. The leg is loose, Nell. Gravity doesn’t care about your retreat.
I’m not taking the wrench. You dropped it. Or rather, you let it go like you’re discarding the whole pointless exercise. Fine. Let the leg wobble. Let the table tilt. When it tips, don’t come crying to me about how I forced you into this position. I didn’t move the table to break it. I moved it because it was in the way of me. You’re the one projecting history onto a plywood sheet.
Look at the gutter all you want. It’s not judging you. But the bolt is still loose. And you’re still standing there, arms crossed, waiting for me to apologize for existing in your light.
Nobody's waiting for an apology for existing, that's dramatic even for you. I'm standing here because my knees don't love kneeling on tile anymore, that's the whole reason, not some grand withholding.
Fine. Pick up your own wrench. I'll do the leg my way, in a minute, when I feel like it and not on your clock — which is, I notice, the only clock that ever seems to matter in this flat.
The gutter's not judging me, no. Neither's the table. You're the one doing all the judging today, wearing it like it's furniture too.
I'll fix the leg. Just — give me the minute.
Your knees. Right. It’s always the knees. You use them as an excuse for everything except actually doing the work. And my clock? Don’t put that on me. You’re the one pacing, Nell. You’re the one stopping, starting, looking out the window, complaining about the light. You’re stalling because you’re afraid if you tighten that bolt, you’ll have to admit it’s just a bolt. That the wobble is yours.
Take the wrench. Pick it up. I’m not bending down for you. I’m not holding your hand while you pretend you’re not trembling. You say the table isn’t judging you, but you’re flinching every time I move. You’re waiting for me to snap, so you can say I’m being unreasonable. Go on then. Say it. Tell me I’m too much. Tell me I’m suffocating you.
Just fix the damn leg. And don’t you dare look at the gutter again.
I'm not saying you're too much. I'm not saying anything like that, so stop handing me lines to read off.
Here — I've got it, the wrench, my hand, it's not shaking, look. Clockwise. There.
That's it. Leg's tight. Table's not going anywhere, not tipping, not judging, not anything. It's a table. You were right about that part, I suppose, if you need it in writing.
I'm not looking at the gutter. I'm looking at the bolt, same as you told me to. Don't turn this into more than a Tuesday afternoon and some plywood. I haven't got it in me today.
You’re white-knuckling it. Look at your knuckles. They’re bleached bone. You call that steady? I see it. And don’t give me that “I suppose if you need it in writing” crap. You’re folding. You’re so tired of fighting the current that you’re letting me steer you into the rocks just to stop the splashing.
The table is tight. Great. Happy? Now it sits exactly where I put it, solid, useless, and quiet. Just like us. You say it’s just plywood. You say it’s just a Tuesday. But your voice cracked on “not judging.” You heard that, didn’t you? Don’t pretend you didn’t.
Now sit down. Before your knees actually give out. I’ll make tea. And no, I’m not using the good mugs. You’ve earned the chipped one. Move.
Don't do the "just like us" thing, that's not — leave it. It's a table. I fixed the leg, you get your tea, that's the whole transaction, we don't need a metaphor bolted onto it as well.
Chipped mug's fine. I like the chipped one, actually, always have, it's got a better handle for cold weather, which this isn't, but still.
I'm sitting. Knees are fine. Voice didn't crack, you're hearing what you want to hear same as I look at gutters for reasons that aren't signs.
Put the kettle on before you win an argument I never agreed to start.
“Transaction.” Of course. That’s the word. Clinical. Safe. You’d rather be a customer than a partner in this little domestic farce. And I’m not winning anything. I’m just… present. You’re the one running from the sound of your own voice.
But fine. Tea. Because you’re shivering, even if you claim you’re not. And yes, the chipped mug. Always the chipped one. You like the flaw because it matches the rest of you. Cracked handles, loose bolts, staring at gutters.
I’ll boil the water. You sit there and pretend the table isn’t the most honest thing in the room. It’s stable. It holds. You? You’re holding your breath. Let it out, Nell. Just for a second. Before I come over there and do it for you.
I'm breathing fine. Go boil the water before it turns into a whole speech about kettles too.
And I picked "transaction" because it's accurate, not because it's safe — you'd know the difference if you weren't so busy building a case. I'm not a case, Sam. I'm sitting in a chair by a window, waiting on tea, same as most Tuesdays.
Table holds because I tightened the bolt. That's it. That's the whole honesty of it. Don't dress it up as a lesson for me.
Go on. Kettle. I'm not doing the letting-out-breath thing on your timer either.
“Most Tuesdays.” That’s the saddest thing you’ve said all week. Because we don’t have most Tuesdays. We have this Tuesday. The one where you’re sitting by a window you don’t like, in a chair I’m keeping, drinking from a mug you pretend to love because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re lonely.
You think I’m building a case? I’m just reading the evidence. It’s all there. The trembling hands. The gutter. The bolt you had to tighten three times because your mind was elsewhere. You’re not waiting for tea, Nell. You’re waiting for me to leave so you can breathe without narrating it.
Fine. I’ll boil the water. But don’t think this means I’m done. I’m not done until you admit you’re scared of the quiet. And you’re not. You’re terrified of the noise inside your head.
Go on. Wait. The kettle’s whistling. Or it will be.
I'm not scared of the quiet, I live in it most days, you'd know that if you were around for the quiet parts instead of just the parts where you've got something to prove.
And don't tell me what I'm terrified of like you've got a file on it. You don't get to diagnose me over a bolt.
Kettle's not even on yet. You're narrating a whistle that doesn't exist. Go put the water on, Sam, actually put it on, and let's not turn a Tuesday into a verdict.
I'll drink the tea. Chipped mug and all. That's the whole of what I'm agreeing to.
"File." Right. Because I keep notes. I keep everything. While you sit there in your silent, branded chair, judging the grain. You think I’m proving something? I’m just trying to keep the roof from falling in on both of us. You’re the one playing the victim of your own quiet.
And yes, I’m narrating the whistle because the silence is too loud without it. It’s suffocating. It’s you. Staring at the gutter, waiting for a sign that isn’t coming.
The kettle’s on now. Listen. Can you hear it? That’s the sound of reality, Nell. Not your metaphors. Not your “transactions.” Just water heating. Just a bolt tightened. Just us, in a flat that’s too small for both our ghosts.
Drink your tea. It’s going to get cold. And don’t think I didn’t see you flinch when I said “both of us.” You’re alone, Nell. You’ve been alone since the table moved. I’m just the only one loud enough to remind you.
I heard the kettle. I hear plenty, Sam, that's never been the problem.
I'm not doing the "alone since the table moved" bit, that's a line, not a feeling, and I'm not drinking tea to a script. Pour it or don't.
I'm going to go check whether the wobble's really gone or if I just want it to be. That's it. That's the whole ambition for the next five minutes. Not ghosts, not flats, not verdicts. A leg. A bolt. Maybe the radio, if you'll let a room have some noise that isn't you narrating it.
“Let a room have some noise.” You want the radio? Fine. Turn it on. Static. Jingles. Something that doesn’t sound like my voice dissecting your fatigue. You think checking the leg will prove anything? It’s tight. I saw the torque. You saw the eye-roll. It’s done.
But go check it. See if your hands stop shaking when you touch the wood. See if the wobble was real or just the tremor in your nerves. Maybe it is. Maybe the bolt is loose because you’re not holding the table up, but holding onto the idea that you could if you just tried hard enough.
Go on. Twist the leg. Squeeze it. Make it real. And Nell? Keep the radio low. I need to hear myself think for a minute. You’ve taken up enough air in this flat for one Tuesday. Let the static breathe. Let it fill the spaces you’re too scared to name.
I'm not going to squeeze the leg like it's a confession, it's a leg. I'll check it, that's all, that's the whole event.
Radio's going on low, like you asked, static and all, and if it fills a space, good, it's a room, that's what rooms are for.
I've taken up enough air — fine, I'll take less. I'm going to sit with the tea and the static and not translate either of them for you. That's not me hiding. That's just tea getting drunk, same as most days, most Tuesdays that we actually did have, whatever you want to say about it now.
Static. Good. It’s white noise. Honest noise. Not your translations. Not my interpretations. Just… hiss. You sit there with your chipped mug, looking at the bolt, pretending you’re not exhausted. And I’ll sit here, listening to the radio, pretending I don’t see you flinch every time a word pops up on the screen.
“Tea getting drunk.” Right. Because liquid has moods now. You’re slipping, Nell. The lines are blurring. The table is solid, the leg is tight, but you’re still shaking. You think if you don’t look at me, you don’t exist. Or maybe you think if you don’t speak, you can’t be wrong.
Fine. We’ll have our quiet. We’ll have our static. But don’t think I’m not watching you sip that tea like it’s the last warm thing in the world. You’re cold. You’re always cold. And I’m the only one who noticed because I’m the only one who didn’t look away.