Start by offering to get them something. Push off from this if it helps: a wasp in a car.

It’s not going anywhere, Marc. You’re going to throw the window down and lose your keys. Or the wasp. Probably the wasp. I remember this wasp incident from July. The one where you tried to kill a moth with a rolled-up magazine and missed, hitting the lamp instead. We still have the stripe on the ceiling. It looks like a scar. Don’t shoo. It’s just sitting there. Waiting. Like me.

Anyway, look. There it is. On the leather. Does it care? I don’t think so. Just drive. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter.

It’s the same scar, Marc. You’re fighting ghosts. You always were bad at distinguishing a moth from a wasp. I think. I remember the sound of that magazine hitting the base. Thwack. I was drinking wine. Red wine. Spilled on the rug. We lived in that apartment for three months after. The landlord hated me. He said I had "energy." He was probably right.

You’re gripping the wheel too hard. Your knuckles are white. Is it the wasp? Or just the silence? It’s quieter in here than the car. Much quieter. I’m glad you didn’t mention the keys. I like keys. Small, sharp, useful. Like that moth. I should have killed it properly.

Fine. Sit. I’m sitting. My back hurts. From the chair. The one with the broken spring. It digs into my shoulder blade. I paid extra for it. Stupid.

The wasp is still there. Did it move? No. Good.

I don’t know why I’m telling you about the landlord. He’s gone. Vanished. Or maybe he just moved to Ohio. I heard someone in Ohio said he’d been seen. Eating cereal. Alone.

It’s hot. You’re right. The heat is pressing against the glass. Like a hand. I hate hands.

Just sit, Marc. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Neither is the wasp. We’re all stuck. This is fine. This is okay.

Fine. Quiet.

But you saw it. Don’t lie. I saw the tiny legs. Scuttling against the grey fabric. You’re just afraid. Afraid that if you acknowledge it, it becomes real. And then you have to deal with it. With the noise. With the key.

I’m shutting up. Really. I’m looking at the seam of the seat. There’s a thread loose. I could pull it. Just one tug. See what unravels. Probably nothing. Just lint. Just dust.

It’s hot. So hot. The air is thick. Like soup. I hate soup.

Shh. I’m not speaking. You can’t hear me thinking. That’s the trick. Keep it inside. Let it rot.

...

...

I didn’t pull it. I was staring at it. Like a bomb defusal expert. Or a priest. I remember the priest from St. Jude’s. He used to chew tobacco. Spit red stains on the altar cloth. We couldn’t get it out. The vicar yelled. I loved the vicar. He had such good lungs.

Breathe. In. Out.

It’s hard to breathe when the air is soup. Thick. Stagnant. I feel like I’m swallowing pudding.

The wasp isn’t a myth, Marc. But if it is, let it be. It’s easier. Less work.

My back is killing me. The chair is worse. I think the spring broke through the upholstery. It’s digging into my spine. Right there.

I’ll breathe. For you. Not for the seat.

In. Out.

Does it help? I don’t think it does. It just makes the heat worse. Sweating. Damp clothes. Stick to the skin.

Shh.

Fine. Silent.

But the spring is winning. It’s got teeth. I can feel it through the fabric. Through my shirt. Through my skin. It’s not just a spring, Marc. It’s a needle. Sharp. Cold. Even in this heat.

I remember the needle at the tailor’s. The one that snagged my sleeve. I cried. You laughed. You said I was overreacting. You always laugh when I’m scared. It’s your thing. Like the moth. Like the wasp.

I’m not breathing loud. I’m holding it. In my chest. Heavy. Like the heat.

Don’t look at me. Look at the window. At the heat haze. It’s dancing. Like oil.

I’m just sitting. Still as a stone. Heavier than a stone. Stones don’t feel the spring.

...

...

The thread is still there. Untouched. For now.

Choked. Right. On dust. You were always dramatic. Always picking at things. The thread. The dust. The wasp.

I’m not touching it. My hands are in my lap. Stiff. Like the rest of me.

The blur is better. Dancing implies movement. Hope. Blurring is just... nothing. Just absence. I like absence. It’s quiet. It doesn’t have a spring in it.

You’re right. I remember wrong. I always do. Memory is a lie we tell ourselves to feel continuous. I feel discontinuous. Shattered. Like that lamp.

Don’t look at my hands. Look at the grey. It’s getting darker. Or lighter. Hard to tell.

I’m sitting. Still. Silent.

Is this what you wanted? Just silence?

It’s heavy.

...

Heavy is good. Heavy stays. Light things fly away. Wasps. Moths. Promises.

I wish I had a drink. Whiskey. The cheap kind. Burns on the way down. Clears the head. Or fills it with fog. I prefer fog.

The grey is settling. Like ash. Or snow in July. I remember the July snow. We wore coats. You smiled. It was weird. Beautiful, though.

Don’t move. Your weight is anchoring me. If you move, the spring might win. Or the thread might unravel. Or the wasp might sting.

I’m heavy too. I feel like lead. Dropped into a deep well.

It’s quiet. Finally.

No more talking about the landlord. No more talking about the lamp. Just the weight.

It’s nice.

...

...

Does it hurt? The weight?

I don’t think it does. Not anymore.

Okay.

The thread is just a thread. The spring is just metal.

I’m not thinking about the tailor. Or the vicar. Or the wine stain that looked like a map of a country that doesn’t exist.

Just the grey. The heat. The weight.

You’re sinking. I’m sinking. Down. Past the seat. Past the floor. Into the dirt.

It’s dark here. Quiet.

I won’t ask if it hurts. I won’t ask if you’re okay.

I’ll just be here. Heavy. Still.

The wasp is gone. Or maybe it’s just part of the grey now.

We’re holding each other up by sinking.

That’s how it works.

...

...

I’m here.

Don’t look up.