Congrats. Seriously. I don’t do this for everyone, but you earned it. Anyway, that smell—petrichor, or whatever—is driving me crazy right now. Like, the air outside my office is thick with it. I had to close the window because the delivery guy looked like he was melting through his uniform. Stupid, really. But it smells like... change? Or just bad pavement decisions. Does it smell different to you? It’s too strong here.
Smell? I’m stuck in a basement with a broken AC. It’s been seventy-eight degrees since Tuesday. The guy from maintenance, Dave, said he’d fix it but I think he’s just watching football in the breakroom. I’m wearing a flannel shirt and sweating through it. You’re out there breathing in wet rocks and I’m breathing in stale coffee and despair. If that smell is change, I’m praying for more rain. I need the heat to break. Or for Dave to actually show up.
Dave’s not coming. I saw him. He’s got his headset on, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. Whatever. At least you’re dry. I stepped out for a smoke and got soaked. My boots are ruined. I hate that specific squelch. It’s gross. You think despair smells bad? Try wet wool after three days in a car. I’m shivering now, despite the heat. You’re probably boiling. We’re both miserable, just in different directions. Pass me your umbrella. Metaphorically.
Dave’s headset is probably playing a podcast. Or a sitcom. He’s laughing. I can hear it through the door. I don’t have an umbrella. I threw mine out last week because the handle snapped. Cheap plastic. I walked home in the rain anyway. So you’re wet, I’m sweating, and Dave is laughing. We’re all miserable. But you’re outside. I’m in here with the smell of damp carpet and old coffee. I envy your boots. Ruined, but at least they’re wet with something real. Not this stale, recycled air.
Dave isn’t laughing. He’s on the phone with his ex. Heard him screaming about the lease. Charming. Look, I didn’t choose this. I just... I couldn’t stay in that meeting. The CEO was droning on about synergy while I watched a pigeon fight a plastic bag. I had to move. You think you envy my boots? Try balancing a presentation on a slippery curb while your phone buzzes. You want real? Try missing your train because you were too busy judging Dave’s podcast. I’m not outside. I’m just away. Same difference.
Dave’s on the phone? Great. So the lease is gone too. At least your pigeon has wings. I’m stuck here staring at the flickering fluorescent light above my desk. The one that buzzes like a trapped wasp. I’ve written three drafts of that report you didn’t ask for. My knees hurt. I think I sat wrong. Or maybe it’s just the damp. You’re judging Dave’s podcast while missing trains? Priorities. I’m judging my own life from this chair. It’s not so bad. It’s quiet. Until Dave screams.
Dave’s screaming. Loudly. I can hear it through the lobby speakers. Something about a woman named Sarah. Tragic. You’re judging your life? Good. That’s more than I did. I just ran. Out the back, into the worst storm of the decade. My report? I threw it in the trash. Literally. It was garbage anyway. You want quiet? Listen to the rain. It’s relentless. Drowning out the office. Drowning out the yelling. Almost peaceful. Until my phone rings. I didn’t answer it. Let it ring. You’re still there. Still watching the wasp. Poor bastard.
I’m not watching the wasp. It died. Or flew off. I didn’t see. I’m staring at the stain on the ceiling. Looks like a map of a country that doesn’t exist. Dave is screaming about Sarah. I can hear the glass shattering. Probably his mug. The one with the chipped handle. I should do something. But my legs feel like lead. You threw the report? Good. Let it drown. I’m still here. Waiting for the rain to stop. Or for Dave to run out of air.
Dave’s mug hit the wall. I heard it through the window. Shattered. Just like his ego. You should do something. Do nothing. Lie down. Stare at the map-country. It’s better than listening to him scream about Sarah. I’m still here. Wet. Cold. Regretting nothing, mostly. The rain’s easing. Just a drizzle now. Dave’s voice is cracking. Good. Let him crack. Your legs are lead. Good. Stay there. The ceiling is more honest than most people I know. I’m going inside. My shoes are leaking. It’s annoying. I hate it. But I’m done. For now.
Dave’s crying now. Hysterical. Sarah hung up. I can hear the dial tone through the wall. The ceiling map is dissolving into the water stain. My legs are asleep. Numb. Good. Let them stay that way. You’re leaking inside your shoes. Cold. Wet. Alive. I’m just... present. A ghost in a flannel shirt. Don’t come back in. Not yet. Let the rain finish. Let Dave finish. I’m not going anywhere. I’m part of the furniture now. Expensive, uncomfortable furniture.
Good. Stay. Let the water ruin the ceiling tiles. Let Dave crumble. I’m sitting on a bench now. The wet wood feels real. My feet are numb too. Finally. You’re furniture? Perfect. Less pressure. Furniture doesn’t have to care about synergy. I’m watching a car drive through a puddle. Splash. Chaos. I didn’t bring an umbrella because I forgot it. Stupid. Or brave. Don’t know yet. I’m going to stand up. My knees crack. Loud. Like the mug. Let them both break. I’m just sitting here. Waiting for the storm to pass. Or for it to stop caring.
The ceiling tiles are sagging. Dark brown streaks running down the white paint. Like tears. Dave’s voice is just a whimper now. I can’t even make out the words. Just breath. Wet, ragged breath. My phone is on the desk. Screen black. I didn’t charge it. Stupid. Or brave. The car splash you saw probably hit a taxi. Yellow blur. I hope they got soaked too. You’re sitting on wet wood. I’m sitting on a chair that digs into my spine. Both are real. Both hurt. Let the storm care. I don’t. I’m just waiting for the leak to stop dripping on my report. The one I didn’t throw away.