Rafe
Fog again. Thick, grey soup. I tripped over the curb because I couldn’t see my feet. Shined my shoes, too. You know how that goes. Wasted half an hour scrubbing at mud that wasn’t even there. Just the light playing tricks. Typical Tuesday.
Open with something completely trivial. Push off from this if it helps: fog.
rafeQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
hanaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit
modevigil
voices Coarse
Hana
Fuck off. I’m trying to read here. The light playing tricks is your problem, not mine. Go buy some better insoles or stop complaining about the humidity. It’s always foggy on your block. Always. I had to deal with that same shit at the office today, but I didn’t whine about my shoes.
Rafe
Your office is a glass box. Of course the light’s fine there. My block’s got these old streetlamps that flicker like dying things. Not my fault the infrastructure’s rotting. You want quiet, go to a library. Don’t sit on my porch whining about humidity when it’s dry as bone out here.
Hana
Shut up. I’m not on your porch, Rafe. I’m in my goddamn kitchen, staring at the same grey soup you’re whining about. And don’t lecture me on infrastructure when you can’t even see your own feet. My boots are dry. Yours are probably soaked through with self-pity. Go fix the damn streetlamp.
Rafe
Boots are dry. Thanks. My streetlamp’s been out since ‘09. Council says budget. Funny how they find money for new billboards. You’re in your kitchen. Good for you. Eat something. That grey soup looks stale.
Hana
It’s soup, not scenery. And it’s not stale, it’s just edible. Unlike your complaints. Yeah, the council’s bankrupt. Big surprise. I eat whatever’s left in the fridge because I’m too tired to cook. Go fix your streetlamp, Rafe. Or don’t. I’m not your handyman. I’m just eating dinner. Stop talking.
Rafe
Fine. Eat your soup. I was going to tell you about the guy who fixed the ‘09 lamp. Turned out it wasn’t broken. Just unplugged. Probably by some kid looking for copper. Shitty irony. Anyway. Quiet. You want quiet. Take it. Shut up.
Hana
Unplugged. Great. Because nature abhors a vacuum and a functioning grid. Anyway. I was going to tell you about the guy who fixed the ‘09 lamp. Turned out it wasn’t broken. Just unplugged. Probably by some kid looking for copper. Shitty irony. Anyway. Quiet. You want quiet. Take it. Shut up.
Rafe
You’re quoting me now? That’s weirdly intimate. No kid took the wire. I saw the cord myself. It’s frayed, not cut. Council did it to save power. Lying to my face. You want quiet, just sit there and chew. Don’t perform the silence. It’s pathetic.
Hana
Fuck you. I’m chewing. And I’m not quoting you, I’m just repeating what you said because you can’t seem to finish a thought without tripping over your own dignity. If the cord’s frayed, it’s a fire hazard. Tell the council. Or don’t. I’m done listening to you whine about wires. Eat your soup.
Rafe
Fire hazard. Right. Like my jacket isn’t already a torch. I called them. Voice mail. Always voice mail. You’re chewing loud. It’s distracting. The soup’s probably cold now. We wasted twenty minutes arguing about a lamp that’s dead anyway. Just eat.
Hana
It’s hot. I’m chewing. Your jacket’s not on fire, Rafe, it’s just ugly. Stop pretending you’re dying. I called my boss today, he didn’t answer either. We’re all just screaming into voids. Eat. And stop looking at me like I’m the asshole for having a life. Go fix your lamp. Or burn. I don’t care.
Rafe
My jacket’s wool. It breathes. You’re the one sweating through cotton. Boss didn’t answer? Shocking. I told him about the lamp, he hung up. Now I’m just staring at this wall. The fog’s thinning. I can see the road. It’s cracked. Like my shoe. You’re lucky you have a kitchen. I just have the sidewalk. And the fog. Always the fog.
Hana
Shut up. My boss is an idiot, not a ghost. And I’m not sweating, I’m just warm because your whining is raising the temperature. Wool breathes? Yeah, right. You smell like wet dog. And I’m not lucky. I’m just here. Stuck in this kitchen with you. Go fix your shoe. Or walk barefoot. I don’t give a shit. Just stop talking about the fog. It’s boring.
Rafe
Wet dog? I showered Tuesday. You’re hallucinating. My boss isn’t an idiot, he’s just avoiding me. Classic. I’m walking barefoot. The floor’s cold. Good for the soles. Fog’s not boring, it’s honest. Hides the cracks. You hide behind your soup. Eat up. I’m leaving. Door’s open. Don’t let it slam.
Hana
Don’t play tough. “Classic” avoidance? Yeah, sure. Go sit on the sidewalk. Let the cold rot your feet. I’m not locking anything. Slam the door if you want. I’ll hear it over your dramatic exit. And stop whining about honesty. You’re just too scared to face the cracks you’re so obsessed with. Whatever. Bye.
Rafe
Door’s heavy. The latch sticks. You always jam it. I’m not scared. I’m cold. My toes are turning purple. The sidewalk is just concrete, not a verdict. And your soup is going cold. Let it. I’ll walk until they stop hurting. Then I’ll come back. Because there’s nowhere else to go.
Hana
You’re pathetic. Fine. Keep walking. Let your toes turn purple. I’m not unlocking that door for you. If you come back shivering, you can sleep on the floor. Don’t expect a blanket. Or soup. Eat your cold shit. I’m done. Go.
Rafe
Door didn’t click. It never clicks. You left it open. Cold air’s hitting the rice. Pathetic? Maybe. But I’m right there. You didn’t lock it. You never lock it. Just stand in the doorway. Don’t look at my feet. Look at the soup. It’s getting worse. Come in. Or don’t. Just stop staring.
Hana
It’s not rice. It’s congealed sludge. And I’m not staring at your feet because they’re ugly. I’m staring because you’re standing in my drafty hallway like a lost puppy. Come in. Shut the door. If you freeze, I’m not calling an ambulance. I’m eating this garbage. Move.
Rafe
Congealed sludge. Right. Hallway’s freezing. Door’s shut. Heavy. You’re eating it. Good. I’ll take the floor. Tiles are harder than your floor. At least they don’t smell like old soup. My toes are numb. Whatever. Just eat. Don’t look at me. I’m just a stain on the rug.
Hana
Shut the fuck up. You’re not a stain, you’re a damp towel. And the floor’s not harder, it’s just colder. Come here. You’re blocking the light. I’m not looking at your feet. I’m looking at the wall. Eat. Or freeze. I don’t care. Just stop breathing on my rice. It’s cold now. Good for you.
Rafe
Damp towel. Accurate. I’ll move. Don’t want to block the light. Eating it. Cold congealed sludge. Just like you said. My breath is cold too. Good. The wall is blank. Better than looking at you. I’m fine here. Just breathe. Or don’t. I won’t make it worse.
Hana
Good. Move over. You’re freezing the room. I’m not looking at you, I’m looking at my phone. Because staring at your miserable face is worse than the blank wall. Eat your sludge. It’s cold because you’re a damp towel who can’t take a hint. Stop breathing so loud. It’s annoying. Just eat.
Rafe
Phone’s bright. Annoying. I’m moving. Floor’s cold. Breathing loud? Try breathing at all. Sludge tastes like metal. Like the lamp. You’re staring at the screen, not me. Good. Don’t look at my face. It’s not worth it. I’ll eat. Slowly. So you can hear every bite. Satisfy that need for control.
Hana
Fine. Eat. Squeak all you want. I’m not listening. I’m watching a video of a guy fixing a carburetor. More interesting than you. Go ahead. Chew loud. It’s pathetic, but at least it’s something. Just don’t drip on the tiles. I’m not cleaning up your mess. Or your cold. Whatever.
Rafe
Carburetor. Detailed work. You watch those because you can’t fix your own life. I won’t drip. I’m careful. Tiles stay dry. Your shame stays yours. I’m chewing now. Slow. Deliberate. Let the sound annoy you. It’s the only thing you control. Eat your sludge. Watch your machine. Pretend you’re happy.
Hana
Shut up. It’s not a machine, it’s a fucking video. And I’m happy. I’m better than you. You’re eating cold sludge on the floor. I’m warm. I’m dry. And I’m not watching it to fix my life. I’m watching it because you’re too boring to talk to. Just eat. Stop trying to psychoanalyze me. It’s pathetic.
Rafe
Video’s just pixels. You’re staring at them because you can’t look at me. Dry? Your socks are damp. I saw the halo around your ankles. Cold floor’s grounding. Better than your warmth. Psychoanalyze? I’m stating facts. You’re shivering. Admit it. Eat. Watch. Ignore the cold creeping up your legs. It’s already there.
Hana
Fuck off. It’s condensation. From the soup. Not damp socks. You’re hallucinating because you’re freezing. And I’m not shivering. I’m just... twitchy. Stop looking at my ankles. Look at the screen. At least the pixels are honest. You’re just a ghost in a wool jacket. Eat.