Congrats on the promotion. Look, the translation on that menu was garbage. “Spicy anguish” for the curry? Ridiculous. I had to explain that to Greg. He thought we were some kind of avant-garde restaurant. Anyway, I’m keeping the ticket. You asked for it, but let’s be clear, the deadline was tight. I checked the numbers. They were fine. Mostly.
Right. “Spicy anguish.” I told them it was bold. Greg probably just wanted to eat. Or he’s plotting something. He’s always plotting. I heard about the kitchen renovation, though. The tiles are wrong. Everyone says so. I kept my mouth shut at the meeting, but my hands were shaking. You checked the numbers. Good. That’s something. I’m just… glad you’re here. Even if you’re complaining about my terrible decisions. Again.
Greg is definitely plotting. He once tried to substitute olive oil with crayon wax. Anyway, the tiles aren’t wrong, they’re just… matte. The supplier swears it’s high-end industrial. My back’s killing me from hauling those crates. You shook? Fine. But the numbers held. I didn’t make this call to coddle you, Tess. I made it because the alternative was burning cash. The crayon thing was a joke, right? Please tell me that was a joke.
Crayon wax. God, I hope so. Greg’s been weird lately. Staring at the supplier invoices. I didn’t shake because I was scared, Jo. I shook because the font choice on the new signage looked like it was written by a toddler having a seizure. And you’re right. The tiles are matte. I hate matte. It swallows the light. My back’s fine. Just tired. You always check the numbers. Always. I just wanted the place to feel… alive. Before the funding dried up. Which it hasn’t. Yet.
Matte swallows light. Exactly. That’s why I picked the gloss finish. Greg would have picked black. He loves black. It hides the dust. You wanted alive, I wanted solvent. There’s a difference. The funding’s fine because I didn’t sign off on that font either. It’s Helvetica. Bold. Safe. Ugly, but safe. Stop looking at Greg. He’s staring at his phone. Probably ordering more crayon wax. Or whatever he actually buys.
Helvetica. Safe. Ugly. You always were a bore, Jo. I remember when we used to use Comic Sans. For fun. You hated it. Said it made the place look like a dentist’s office for toddlers. Now you’re just… efficient. Greg’s not staring. He’s texting. Probably his wife. Or his lawyer. I don’t know. And I don’t want to. The crayon thing isn’t funny. It’s concerning. But fine. Keep your numbers. Keep your gloss. I’ll keep my “spicy anguish.” At least it’s honest.
Comic Sans was a cry for help. And I’m not a bore, I’m tired. My coffee’s cold. Greg’s not texting his wife; he’s checking crypto. Everyone’s into crypto now. It’s the new crayon wax. I saw him huddled in the breakroom. You called it “spicy anguish,” I called it a liability. Don’t pretend it’s honest. It’s lazy. And the gloss tiles? They’re reflecting the streetlamp. It’s distracting. I fixed the wiring. You’re welcome. Even if you hate me for it.
Cold coffee. Of course. You’re always so proper. Greg’s not checking crypto, he’s doomscrolling. Same thing, really. Just darker. I fixed the wiring? You rewired the kitchen while I was eating lunch? That’s… invasive, Jo. Not helpful. The streetlamp reflection is part of the ambiance. Now it’s sterile. Like your personality. I didn’t ask you to touch the wires. I asked for a menu that didn’t insult Greg’s intelligence. You gave me a spreadsheet. I’m hungry. Are you? Or are you just going to stare at that screen?
Invasive? I saved the place from a fire hazard. Your spaghetti was nearly a tragedy. The streetlamp isn’t ambiance, it’s a glare. Greg’s doomscrolling because he’s scared. You’re just hungry. I made sandwiches. The good bread. Not the discount stuff you usually buy. They’re on the counter. Eat them. Stop staring at the screen. I’m not here to be your personality. I’m here because you need someone to check the wiring. And the budget. Mostly the budget.
I didn’t ask for bread. I asked for a menu that didn’t read like a war crime. You’re doing that thing again. The martyr complex. Spaghetti wasn’t a tragedy; it was al dente. Like you. Cold. Hard. Greg’s scared because he knows he’s replaceable. You know it too. That’s why you’re obsessed with the wiring. Fixing what you can’t control. Eat your own sandwich, Jo. I’m not hungry. I’m just… tired of carrying you. And the budget. Mostly the budget. It’s exhausting. Being the only one who sees the rot.
Al dente. Right. You ate a plate of aluminum foil and called it dinner. I’m not a martyr, Tess. I’m the only one who noticed the fuse box was sparking. Greg’s not replaceable; he’s irrelevant. You say you carry me? You barely keep the lights on. And rot? The place is clean. Sanitized. Like my life. You want war crimes? Go read a menu. At least then you’ll feel something. Besides, I ate my sandwich. It was dry. Just like you said.
Aluminum foil? You’re delusional. I ate the pasta. You just watched me choke on it. Greg’s irrelevant because he knows he’s playing with fire. Literally. The fuse box? You’re obsessed. You always were. Sanitized life. Dry sandwich. You’re trying to make me feel bad about caring. It’s not working. The place isn’t clean, Jo. It’s sterile. Like a morgue. And I hate morgues. They’re too quiet. Greg’s not irrelevant. He’s the only one who laughs. You haven’t laughed since the promotion. Or the wiring. Or the bread.
I didn’t watch you choke. You were pretending. It’s a trick you do. Greg laughs at his own jokes. Pathetic. The fuse box was smoking, Tess. Actual smoke. You call it fire; I call it the end of this place. Sterile? Fine. At least the sterile place doesn’t burn down. I laughed at the promotion. Quietly. Because I knew it meant more work. More wiring. More Greg. Eat the sandwich. Or starve. I don’t care. Really. I don’t.
Pretending. Right. You always assume I’m performing. The smoke was grey, Jo. Not black. There’s a difference. You’re catastrophizing. It’s your specialty. Greg’s jokes are bad, yes, but he’s present. You’re just… calculating. The sandwich is on the counter. Cold. Just like your celebration. I’ll eat it. Because I’m hungry. And because starving won’t fix the wiring. But don’t pretend you did it for me. You did it because you needed to control the narrative. Again. Eat your silence. It’s dry.
Grey smoke means a bad connection. Black means a fire. You don’t get to decide the scale of the disaster. I’m not calculating, Tess. I’m surviving. Greg’s presence is a distraction. He’s not fixing the wiring; he’s laughing at it. That’s not presence, that’s denial. The sandwich is cold because you left it there. I didn’t do it for the narrative. I did it because I couldn’t watch the place burn. Again. Your hunger isn’t my emergency. Eat. Or don’t. I’m done.
Grey smoke means a bad connection. Black means a fire. You don't get to decide the scale of the disaster. I’m not calculating, Tess. I’m surviving. Greg’s presence is a distraction. He’s not fixing the wiring; he’s laughing at it. That’s not presence, that’s denial. The sandwich is cold because you left it there. I didn’t do it for the narrative. I did it because I couldn’t watch the place burn. Again. Your hunger isn’t my emergency. Eat. Or don’t. I’m done.