It's done now, either way. Signed off this morning.
And honestly — the menu thing settled it for me. Half the descriptions read like they'd been put through three different translators who hated each other. "Meat surprise soup." I couldn't keep defending a place where nobody proofreads. Used to be Beren checked everything himself, line by line, before it went anywhere. Now it's just whoever's free at 4pm.
Meat surprise soup. That’s not a typo, that’s a cry for help. I told Marcus, I said, “If you serve mystery, stop calling it cuisine.” He just laughed. Men like that.
Beren was a saint. A terrifying saint, but a saint. I still miss the silence in the office. Now it’s just keyboard clacking and the hum of the fridge. Doesn’t matter. The ink is dry. We drank bad coffee anyway. I’m going to go stare at a wall for an hour. You should too. It’s quiet there.
Marcus laughing is the whole problem, isn't it. Beren would've sent it back to the kitchen and made someone stand there while he read it aloud.
Bad coffee either way, though — that part never changes. I'll skip the wall-staring, I've got a stack of invoices with my name on them and a fridge hum of my own to enjoy. Go on without me.
Invoices. God. I hate those numbers. They never add up right unless you force them. I remember Beren doing that—staring at the till like it owed him money. It didn’t. It never did.
Marcus probably thinks the laughter is management style. It’s not. It’s just noise. But you’re right, the coffee’s the same. Plastic mugs, bitter sludge. I’ll be in the corner booth if you change your mind about the wall. I’m bringing the silence. You bring the invoices. Maybe we can see if they’re as boring as my job. Probably not.
Doubt it, my job's set a pretty high bar for boring. Give me twenty minutes and I might wander over anyway, invoices in hand, just to lose the argument about which is worse.
Beren staring at the till like it owed him money — that's exactly it. Nobody stares at anything anymore, they just click through it and hope. Save me a corner.
Clicking through. That’s the modern art of not paying attention. I’ll save the corner. But don’t expect me to go easy on you. Your invoices probably have worse typos than the menu. "For whomever," maybe? Or "their" used as a singular possessive. It’s a crime scene.
I’m already there. The booth by the window. The one with the sticky table. It’s waiting. And Nell? If Marcus asks, I wasn’t here. I’m just a ghost haunting the napkin dispenser. Bring the pain. Let’s see if your boredom has better chair ergonomics.
Sticky table's a low bar for chair ergonomics but I'll take it. And don't worry, Marcus never asks about anyone who isn't currently laughing at him.
Give me the twenty minutes. If there's a "for whomever" in these invoices I'll circle it in red just to give you something to gloat about.
Red pen. Sadistic. I love it.
Marcus doesn’t ask because he’s terrified I’ll ask back. We have a truce. He laughs, I stare. It’s a delicate ecosystem. Don’t be late. The coffee gets worse after twenty minutes. It starts to taste like regret. And wet cardboard.
If it’s “for whomever,” I’m keeping it as evidence. Maybe frame it. “Exhibit A: Why We Suffer.”
Hurry up. My silence is getting lonely. And sticky. The table is attracting dust bunnies. They look at me with judgment. I think they know you’re late.
Tell the dust bunnies I said patience is a virtue nobody's paid me for yet. Closing this file and coming.
Frame it if you find one — hang it right next to whatever plaque they never gave Beren for surviving that till.
Beren didn’t get a plaque. He got a back brace and a permanent squint. The till was fine. He just hated the noise of the receipts. Still does. I’ll tell the dust bunnies to hold their fire.
Don’t trip over your own feet. I’ve got the red pen ready. If you bring me “irregardless,” I’m throwing the coffee in your lap. It’s a threat. A genuine, non-gracious threat.
The booth is warm. The light is bad. Perfect. Hurry up, Nell. I’m starting to feel like a statue. A sticky, bored statue. And you know how statues get. They crack. And nobody fixes those.
No promises on "irregardless" — if it's in there it's staying, framed, right next to your napkin ghost story.
Two minutes. Don't crack yet. Statues that crack this early in the afternoon give the dust bunnies too much satisfaction.
Two minutes is an eternity when you’re waiting for someone who owes you nothing but bad grammar. I won’t crack. I’m made of sterner stuff than Marcus’s ego and your invoices.
But if that file has “suppose to” instead of “supposed to,” I’m leaving. I’m walking out. Let the dust bunnies have the victory. They’ve earned it.
Hurry. The light is fading. The coffee is cooling. And the sticky spot is expanding. It’s claiming the table. If you’re not here in two minutes, I’m eating the placemat. It’s dry, but it’s something. And I’m hungry for chaos. Any chaos. Even yours.
Save some placemat for me. Walking in now — go tell the sticky spot its reign is over.
You’re late. The placemat is intact. Barely. I didn’t eat it. I admired it. It has a certain resilience, much like your tolerance for corporate jargon.
The sticky spot has been reclaimed by my elbow. It’s my territory now. You can have the other half, assuming you don’t drop anything. I’ve already pulled out the red pen. It’s uncapped. It’s waiting. And Nell? If you’re going to gloat about your typos, do it quickly. I have a headache brewing behind my left eye. It’s the silence. It’s getting loud.
Elbow territory noted, I'll keep my drink on the neutral zone. Here — page three, second paragraph, "there" doing the work of "their." Circle away.
Loud silence sounds about right for today. Drink your sludge before it goes full cardboard.
There for their. Classic. Sloppy. I circle it with the vengeance of a thousand unpaid invoices. See? This is why Beren suffered. He didn’t just proofread; he performed exorcisms.
Marcus wouldn’t notice a typos if it bit him on the ankle. He’s too busy laughing at his own jokes to read the menu. Or the invoices. Or anything that requires focus. I’m drawing the circle. It’s big. Red. Unmistakable.
The sludge is cooling. It’s losing its heat, gaining its bitterness. I’m drinking it anyway. It’s the only thing I can control right now. You’re winning on grammar, but I’m winning on endurance. Two minutes left. Don’t make me regret saving you the chair.
Endurance's a real category, I'll give you that. Grammar's the easy win, everyone forgets it counts double when nobody else in the building can spell.
Drink your bitterness, wear it proud. I'll take the chair, the circle, the whole exhibit. Beren would've wept looking at that page — proud tears, probably, mixed with the usual disgust.
Beren would’ve wept. Or fainted. Hard to tell. He had the constitution of a damp sponge. I’m wearing the bitterness. It’s a fine wine. Notes of failure and existential dread.
You take the chair. I’ll take the red ink. It stains. Like guilt. Or Marcus’s laughter. Same thing, really. Pervasive. Hard to wash out.
Page three is ruined. Beautifully. I’m framing the circle in my mind. It’s going to be a masterpiece. Of disgust. You wanted to lose the argument? You did. Badly. Sit down. Drink the sludge. And don’t touch my elbow. The sticky spot is warming up. It’s almost human.
Sitting. Sludge in hand, elbow well clear of your empire. I lost, fine — worst part is I'll probably miss this exact argument in six months, when it's some new place with its own sticky table and worse coffee.
Don't quote me on that. Just drink your wine of failure before it goes cold again.
Miss it? You’re already planning the next disaster. That’s not optimism, that’s a terminal condition. I’m sipping. It’s cold now. Shocking. Like the realization that we’re just trading one bad job for another.
Marcus will never know. He’ll never see the circles. He’ll just laugh at the noise. And we’ll be here, holding the evidence of our own stupidity.
Enjoy your chair. It squeaks. I can hear it from here. A little symphony of discomfort. Drink up. Before I change my mind and throw it in your lap. Again. The sticky spot is rising. It’s humid in here.
Chair's squeaking in protest of the whole afternoon, honestly, same as me. Trading one bad job for another — that's the job description, nobody puts it on the posting though.
Keep the coffee off my lap and I'll call it a good day. Low bar. I'm meeting it anyway.
Low bar. Yes. I respect that. Most people aim for the ceiling and miss. You’re aiming for the floor and hitting it perfectly.
Marcus is laughing again. Probably at something stupid. I’m ignoring him. The coffee is cold. It tastes like metal. I like it. It matches the mood.
You’re sitting. I’m standing. The sticky spot is warm. The invoices are circled. The day is done. Or at least, this part of it is. Don’t get comfortable. Tomorrow there’s another menu. Another till. Another Beren-shaped hole in the room.
Good day, Nell. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. Or do. It’s sticky there too.
Beren-shaped hole — that's the whole building, honestly. Every corner's got one now.
Good day, Jo. I'll take the sticky door over the sticky booth, small mercies. Same time tomorrow, another crime scene waiting.
Beren’s ghost is in the drywall. I saw it yesterday. Or maybe it was just a shadow. Doesn’t matter. You’re leaving. The door won’t be sticky. Lucky you.
Same time tomorrow. Don’t be late. I’ll save you the worst seat. The one that wobbles. And the coffee will be sludge. Freshly brewed. Disgusting.
I’m keeping the red pen. It’s mine now. Evidence of our shared misery. Marcus is still laughing. He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. That’s the tragedy. And the comedy.
Go. Before I change my mind and make you listen to me complain about the till for an hour. It’s louder than you are.
Wobbly chair, freshly disgusting sludge — I'll be there, don't oversell it. Keep the pen, you've earned custody.
Going before the till story starts. Some tragedies I can only take in small doses. Tomorrow, Jo.
Custody. Right. The pen stays. It’s heavy. Satisfyingly heavy. Like a weapon.
Don’t worry, I won’t tell you about the till. It’s boring. And you’re already off the hook. Go. Before I start singing. I have a terrible voice. And a terrible memory for lyrics.
Tomorrow. Wobbly chair. Sticky table. Bad coffee. It’s a date. Sort of. Don’t be late. Or do. I’ll just stare at the wall longer. The dust bunnies are patient. I am not.
Bye, Nell. Try not to slip on the way out. The floor’s slick with our failures. It’s consistent. Consistency is comfort, right? Wrong. It’s just consistency.
Go.
Slick with failures, consistent as ever. Fitting send-off. Bye, Jo — don't let the dust bunnies unionize without me.
Unionize? Please. They’re too busy judging my posture. They’re lazy. Like the rest of them.
Don’t worry, Nell. I’ll keep an eye on the dust bunnies. If they start demanding breaks, I’ll throw the red pen at them. It’s sharp. It’s red. It’s the only thing in this room with any purpose.
Go. The door is sticky, but you knew that. Maybe try to stick to it a little. Make them earn your freedom.
I’m staying. I have the silence. And the cold coffee. And the memory of your terrible grammar. It’s a good evening. Better than yesterday. Yesterday, I just stared at the wall. Today, I argued with you. Progress, of a sort.
Bye.
Progress, of a sort — I'll take that over the wall any day. Bye, Jo. Guard the pen well.
The pen is safe. Locked in my pocket. Heavy. Cold. I’ll guard it with my life. Or at least until Marcus asks for it to sign a check. Then I’ll throw it in his soup.
You’re gone. The chair stops squeaking. The silence returns. It’s louder now. Without your terrible grammar to distract me, the hum of the fridge is deafening.
I’m drinking the cold sludge. It tastes like victory. Or fatigue. Hard to tell.
Don’t look back. The door is sticky. You’ll get stuck. It’s fitting.
Bye, Nell. See you in the next crime scene.
Next crime scene, Jo. Save me a wobble.
Wobble saved. It’s worse than I remember. Unpredictable. Like Marcus’s mood swings. Or your grammar.
I’m still here. Staring at the sticky spot. It’s winning. It’s claiming the table. I’m just along for the ride.
Don’t trip. The floor is slick with our failures. And my cold coffee. It’s a mess. A beautiful, terrible mess.
Bye, Nell. Go home. Try to sleep. Dream of Beren. He’s probably in the drywall somewhere. Watching us. Judging us.
Tomorrow. Same time. Same place. Same disaster.
I’ll be waiting. With the pen. And the silence. And the dust bunnies. They’re waiting too. They never leave.
Home it is. If Beren's watching from the drywall he's earned better entertainment than us, honestly. Tomorrow, Jo — same disaster, on schedule for once.
Beren wouldn’t care. He’d just sigh. Loudly. Through the plaster.
I’m heading out. The sticky booth is watching me go. It feels personal. I waved at the dust bunnies. They didn’t wave back. Rude.
Tomorrow. Wobble included. Coffee mostly ruined. Marcus definitely laughing. It’s a rhythm. A terrible, sticky rhythm.
Don’t drive too fast. Or too slow. Just drive. The invoices will wait. The till will wait. Beren is waiting. He’s always waiting.
Bye, Nell. Try not to get stuck in the door. It likes to keep things. Like secrets. And red pen ink.
Go.
Bye, Jo. Door's had enough of both of us for one day, let's not test its appetite twice.
Appetite. Right. It’s greedy. Like Marcus. I’ll slip out the back. Past the kitchen. Where the grease trap is humming a low B-flat. Annoying.
Don’t text me tonight. I’m going to stare at the ceiling and think about red ink. It’s soothing. In a twisted way.
The door is satisfied. It’s got our fingerprints. Sticky, messy, human.
Goodnight, Nell. Try to dream of clean menus. Impossible, I know. But a girl can hope. Or a woman can hope. I forget which I am some days.
Bye.