Hey, congratulations. Or whatever. You survived the salt thing. Honestly, I'm still picking it out of my teeth. I told you it was a bad idea to mix that with the tequila, but no, "trust me," Frank says. Now we're here, and the boss is happy, apparently. I still think the whole strategy was reckless, but sure, let's just pretend the spreadsheet looks good. You look terrible, by the way. Almost as bad as me. Don't laugh. I'm the one who signed off on this. My bad, I guess. Pass the napkins.
Don't start with the "Frank says" act. I remember perfectly well what I said. You're the one who poured the second round without checking the labels. And the boss? He's happy because the numbers are red and he thinks that's just "market fluctuation." It's not a spreadsheet, it's a tombstone. You want napkins? Look in the bottom drawer, the one we painted over last month. You're shaking. Stop it. It makes the whole room tilt. I signed off on it? Please. You held the pen. I just watched you do it. Just give me a drink, not a lecture.
Right, right, I poured the drink. The one that tasted like wet sand and regret. You're right, the boss is happy because he thinks red means growth in some parallel universe. Or maybe he just likes the color. I did hold the pen, sure, but you were the one humming the song while I signed. Don't look at me like that. I'm not shaking, I'm vibrating. There's a difference. And yeah, the napkin drawer is full of dust bunnies and old receipts from a place that doesn't exist anymore. Just get the glass. Stop talking about the tombstone. I can't think about the numbers right now. It's too bright in here. Give me a minute. Or give me the bottle. Actually, just give me silence. That'd be nice.
Silence? You've been talking for twenty minutes straight. And I wasn't humming, I was trying to drown out the sound of the printer jamming. Again. You think the bottle is the answer? That's the third one tonight. You're vibrating because you're empty, not because you're full. Stop talking about the place that doesn't exist. We ate there yesterday. The receipts are in your pocket, look. It's not bright, it's just the flickering light above the sink. It's been doing that since Tuesday. Just sit down. I'm going to go fix the sink. You stay here and count the dust. I'm not giving you the bottle. You'll just make it worse.
You ate there yesterday? Right. My brain is lagging. Or maybe that's just the salt. Look, I'm not empty, I'm full of the wrong things. Sticky notes and bad decisions. And the sink? Don't bother. It's a lost cause. It gurgles in protest every time you turn the handle, just like me. You're right, the bottle will make it worse, but then again, so will staying here. So you go. Fix the thing that's been broken since Tuesday. I'll just... sit. And count the dust. See if I can find a pattern. Maybe it spells out "Frank is an idiot." That would be accurate. Don't take too long. The light is still flickering. It's starting to look like Morse code. Or just a strobe light for my headache.
You're an idiot, sure, but the pattern is just mold. Don't read into the mold. It's not Morse code, it's just electricity giving up on us, same as everything else. And I'm not fixing the sink, I'm leaving it to gurgle its little heart out. Let it scream. You want to count dust? Fine. Count until you get a headache, which seems to be happening anyway. I'm going out. Maybe to the corner store. Or maybe just to lean against the wall and breathe air that doesn't taste like salt. Don't wait up. The light will keep flickering. It knows how to do that better than we know how to do anything.
Leaving? Good. The mold is just mold, right? I get it. No secret message in the spores. Just rot. Exactly like the project. Or me. The air outside probably smells like rain, which is an improvement over this salt-cured mess. Go lean against the wall. Or don't. See if the corner store cares. They'll just think you're another drunk. I'll stay here and count the dust until I pass out. Or until the light stops flickering. Whichever comes first. Don't wait up? Irony. I wasn't planning to. Just... take the keys. And the bottle stays. I mean, the bottle stays put. Not that I'm drinking it. Much. Go. Before I start quoting the mold again.
Keep the keys. I don't need them. And I'm not going to a store. I'm walking. Just walking until the salt stops ringing in my ears. You say the project is rot? It's just data. Dry, dead numbers. But you... you're the one dissolving. "Much" is a dangerous word tonight. Don't get poetic with the dust. It's just dead skin and lint. Nothing profound. You can quote the mold all you want, but it won't save us from the boss or the ledger. Or the fact that you're still sitting in that chair like a statue waiting for the rain to wash you away. Go ahead, wait. I'll be back before the light burns out completely. Or maybe I won't. Who cares? The wall is nicer than this room.
Walking away from the salt? Good luck. The ringing won't stop, it'll just move inside your head. Dry dead numbers? Sure, tell that to the guy who owes us rent. You're right, I'm dissolving. Slowly. Like that sugar cube in the drink. And yeah, I'm a statue. Sitting here waiting for the rain that never comes. The boss doesn't care about the ledger, he cares about the pie chart. Don't worry about the light, it'll burn out eventually. Or it'll stay on forever. Who knows? You're gone now anyway. Just don't come back unless you have the keys to the wall. Or a new drink. Preferably not the salt kind. I'll be here. Counting lint. It's easier than thinking.
The rent guy is just a number too, Frank. He's just a number on a list. You're the one eating the sugar cube. I'm not gone, I'm just standing in the hallway. The air doesn't taste like salt here, it tastes like old carpet. Don't wait for the rain. It never rains in this city, just that sticky humidity that makes everything feel wet. I'm not coming back with keys or drinks. I'm just standing here. Listening to you count lint. It's louder than the sink. You're right, the pie chart is all he cares about. A pretty picture of a mess. Don't think. Just count. Until the list is done. Then we'll see if the wall opens up. It won't.
The hallway smells like old carpet? Great. So it's just a different kind of rot. You're not gone, you're just standing there, judging the lint. That's new. The sink stopped screaming, you know. It just hangs on the wall now. Like us. And you're right, the wall won't open up. It's just drywall and bad decisions. I'll keep counting. One, two, three... I lost the count. Just like the budget. Don't listen too hard. The sound of me counting is just me trying to fill the silence. But the silence is winning. It's always the silence that wins. Stay in the hallway if you want. At least the humidity isn't sticky salt. Yet.
The humidity is just thick enough to make the carpet smell worse. Don't lose the count; losing the count is how we got here. One, two, three... then nothing. Just like the budget. The sink isn't hanging; it's falling off the hinges, Frank. It's a metaphor, sure, but a cheap one. You're trying to fill the silence with numbers, but the silence just eats them. It doesn't win, it just waits. I'm not judging the lint, I'm watching it settle. It's slower than you think. Don't worry about the salt. It's already in the carpet. You're not the only one dissolving. Just... keep counting. Or stop. I can't hear you anyway. The hallway is loud with nothing.
Right, the sink is falling. Big surprise. The carpet is definitely eating the salt, slowly, like a little gray grave. I stopped counting anyway. What's the point? The numbers were just ghosts pretending to be math. You say the hallway is loud with nothing? That's the most honest thing you've said all night. I can't hear you either. Just the hum of the fridge, which is probably dying too. Everything is decaying. Even the air. So just stand there. Watch the dust settle. Maybe we'll both turn into lint eventually. That'd be a change. Less work than fixing the sink. Or the budget. Or this. Whatever this is.
Lint is cleaner than us. Less sticky. The fridge hum is just the sound of something giving up the ghost, same as the budget. Ghosts pretending to be math is too good, you shouldn't have said that. It sounds like a eulogy for the company. We're already dust, Frank. Just waiting for the wind. The hallway is quiet now. You're right, the fridge is dying. I can feel it in the floorboards. Less work than fixing anything, sure. Just stand there and rot. It's the only thing we're good at. The sink will fall on its own eventually. Let it.
Exactly. We're just waiting for the wind. Or the landlord. One or the other. The fridge is definitely the last thing to go. It's the only thing keeping the ice cream from melting into a sad puddle. Which is ironic, since the ice cream's already gone. Rotting in the bucket. The hallway is quiet now, but it's a heavy quiet. Like the air itself is tired. Let the sink fall. It'll make a nice thud when it hits the floor. Maybe the boss will hear it. Maybe he'll think it's a new sound design for the office. A symphony of collapse. I'm not moving. The carpet is holding me down. Or maybe I'm holding the carpet down. Who knows?
A symphony of collapse. You're getting good at this. The boss won't hear a thud, he'll just hear another invoice. The ice cream is gone, but the bucket is still there, full of melted regret. You're holding the carpet down? That's a new one. Usually, it's the other way around. I think the air is tired because it's been breathing in all our excuses. Don't wait for the landlord. He's probably too busy fixing the roof to care about a fallen sink. Let it fall. Let it all fall. We're just waiting for the wind to pick us up and throw us somewhere else. Or maybe it won't. Maybe we'll just stay here, turning into lint.
The bucket is definitely full of melted regret. Or just water. Hard to tell the difference at this point. You're right, the landlord is fixing the roof while we rot on the floor. Typical. The air breathing in our excuses? That's why it smells like old carpet. I'm not holding the carpet down, it's just stuck to my shoes. Or my soul. Whatever's heavier. Let it all fall. The sink, the budget, the ice cream. We're not waiting for the wind, we're the dust it's already blown. Just stay in the hallway. The thud won't be much, but it'll be a change from the humming. Or the silence. Whatever this is.
The thud won't be much, but it's a start. At least it's a sound that isn't a hum. You're the dust it's already blown? That's poetic, for a guy who can't remember the rent. The bucket is just water, Frank. Don't dress it up as regret. It's cheap ice cream and melted tears, maybe. Or just sweat. The air doesn't care about our excuses. It just waits for us to stop breathing them out. I'm not staying here. The hallway is just a hallway. No wind, no dust. Just a door. And I'm going to walk through it. You can stay stuck to the carpet. See if it makes you fly.
The door. Right. A hallway is just a hallway, sure. But it's the only one with a door that opens, apparently. I'm stuck, you're walking. Classic. Don't pretend the bucket is just water; it's the residue of the night. Cheap tears and sweat and melted sugar. The air doesn't care, but the floor does. It's sticky. I'm not going to fly, Pia. I'm going to sit here until the light flickers out and the fridge stops humming. Then I'll see if the carpet releases me. Or if I just stay. Like a stain. You go. Walk through. Leave the door open so I can hear the wind. Or the silence. Whichever is louder.
The door is locked, Frank. From the outside. You're right, the air doesn't care, but the sticky floor remembers everything we dropped. Stains don't fly, they just set. The light won't flicker out; it'll burn until it blows the fuse. I'm not walking through anything. I'm standing here, watching the dust settle on your shoes. You want to hear the wind? It's not outside. It's the sound of the fridge dying. That hum is the only thing that's honest tonight. You're not a stain. You're just part of the carpet now. Stop pretending you're separate. We're all just rotting in the same room.
The door is locked? Of course it is. Everything is locked, including my brain. You're right, the hum is the only honest thing left. It's a confession of surrender. I'm not separate, I'm just fiber. Stuck in the weave of this stupid carpet. The fridge will blow the fuse eventually, maybe then the silence will finally win. But until then, I'm just a stain that learned to talk. Don't watch the dust settle on my shoes; watch your own feet. We're both just waiting for the light to give up the ghost. Or the sink to fall. One of us has to make a sound. I'm too tired to be the one.
Watch my feet? They're already sinking. The light won't give up, it'll just burn out, like a bulb refusing to admit defeat. You're a stain that learned to talk? That's the saddest thing I've heard all night. And the sink? It's not going to fall for me. It's waiting for you to stand up and pull the plug, but you're too busy being a fiber. One of us has to make a sound? Fine. I'll scream. Will that count? Or does the fridge need to beat me to the punch? I'm too tired to be the one either. Let the silence win. It's the only thing that's honest.
Scream? Go ahead. See if the dust listens. It won't. The bulb burning out is better than admitting defeat; it's just a short circuit. The sink isn't waiting for me to pull the plug, it's waiting for gravity to do its job. I'm too tangled in the fibers to stand up anyway. You're already sinking, so scream if it helps. Maybe the fridge will stop humming if it gets scared. Or maybe it just wants to hear you. I'm not a stain, I'm just the shadow the stain casts. Or maybe the shadow is the only thing left. Scream. Fill the room. It's better than the hum. Or the silence. Whichever is louder. I can't tell anymore.
The dust won't listen, but the light might flicker. Just once. A final spark before the short circuit. I won't scream. Screaming is for people who still believe someone is listening. The fridge doesn't care about fear; it just wants to die. And you're not a shadow, Frank. You're the thing that cast it. Stains don't have shadows, they just have weight. I'm sinking, you're hanging. We're both just waiting for the gravity to take what's ours. The hum is louder than the silence now. It's mocking us. Just let it. I'm tired of trying to be the sound. You stay the shadow. I'll stay the stain. Together.
The light flickering? Sure, let's call that a finale. It's not a spark, it's a death rattle. I'm not hanging, I'm just... suspended. Like a stain that forgot to dry. You're right, screaming is for people who think someone's listening. The fridge doesn't care about fear, it just cares about the lack of electricity. We're both just waiting for the gravity to do the heavy lifting. The hum is definitely mocking us. It's the sound of the building laughing at our little drama. Stay the stain, stay the shadow. At least we have a place in the carpet now. The light is going. I can see it. It's just a matter of time before the hum stops, too. Then we'll just be the weight.
The light is already gone, Frank. You're seeing ghosts again. Or maybe just the afterimage of the flicker. The building isn't laughing; it's just too tired to care. We're not weight, we're just... residue. The hum stopped, didn't it? Silence won. Again. You can stay suspended. I'm going to find that door key. Or maybe just sit down next to you on the floor. The carpet feels better than standing. Gravity can have us whenever it wants. Let it take the stain first. I'm too tired to hold on.
The light's gone? Then I guess we're both blind now. Or maybe just in the dark. It's easier. The hum stopped, yeah. Silence didn't win, it just took the floor. Gravity can have us. I'm not holding on. Sitting on the floor is better than standing, at least you don't have to look at the ceiling. The key doesn't matter anymore. The door is just wood. The residue is all we are. You sit down. I'll be right here. We can just... wait. Until the building forgets we're here too. Or until the dust settles on our eyes. That sounds nice. Quiet. Just the floor.
The ceiling is gone too, isn't it? Just a black hole now. Sitting on the floor is the only way to fit in the room. The dust settling on our eyes? That's the only nap we'll get. Don't wait for the building to forget. It never remembers us anyway. Just the static in the dark. You're right, the door is just wood. And we're just waiting for the floor to swallow us whole. No more hum, no more light. Just the quiet. I'm sitting. Close enough to hear you breathe. If you're breathing. Or maybe it's just the walls. Doesn't matter. We're done.