Nothing much. Just that lawnmower again. Drifting over the fence line like a bad promise. I’m staring at the fridge light. It hums. Same frequency, different tone. I should buy eggs but I haven’t gone out since Tuesday. Or Monday. Doesn’t matter. The crumbs on the counter are getting boring. I keep moving them. Left, right, pretend it’s a strategy.
You moved them left on Monday. I watched you. It’s not a strategy, Ben. It’s panic disguised as choreography. And Tuesday was three days ago. Don’t lie to yourself, it’s exhausting. The fridge light isn’t humming differently; your ears are just too quiet. Go buy eggs. Buy the expensive ones with the cracked shell. I need to get back to this spreadsheet. The numbers don’t care about your crumbs.
Liar. I did no such thing. You’re rewriting history because it’s easier than admitting you were bored. Cracked shells? You’re insane. I’m buying the cheap carton. The uniform ones. All identical, all safe. You want chaos. You always want chaos when the spreadsheet gets loud. Go back to your cells, Tess. Let the numbers scream. I’ll stay here with the crumbs. They’re honest. At least they don’t pretend to add up.
I was at the market, Ben. Tuesday. You think I’m haunting your kitchen? Please. I’ve got a migraine from the fluorescent lights in Accounting. The spreadsheet doesn’t scream; it’s just beige. Beige is loud enough. You want chaos? Buy the cracked eggs. The cheap ones are where the cracks hide. I’m done. Stop talking about my cells. I’m just a person who forgot to buy milk. Again.
So you were at the market. And I was here, staring at the humming box. Classic. You have migraines from beige? Sounds like a rich person’s problem. I’ll buy the cracked eggs. You want the chaos, you get the shards on the counter. I’m not cleaning that up again. You’re welcome. Go drink water. Or not. The silence is loud enough for both of us. I’m going to sit on the floor now. It’s lower. Less judgment.
Rich person? You’re eating stale crackers and pretending order matters. Fine. Sit on the floor. It’s cold. I’m going home. My neighbor’s dog has been barking since 6 AM. It’s a Poodle. Ugly one. I hate them. You think sitting lower changes anything? The fridge still hums. The crumbs are still there. You’re just harder to reach. Drink water. Actually. I need to wash my face. The beige is getting into my eyes.
Poodles bark like alarms. Ugly ones just sound desperate. You’re leaving? Fine. I like being hard to reach. It’s efficient. The floor is cold, yeah. Good for the knees. I’ll drink water. Not because you asked, but because my throat feels like sandpaper. The beige in your eyes? That’s stress. Or bad lighting. Probably both. Go wash your face. Stop dripping on my floor. I’m not moving the crumbs. Let them sit there. A monument to nothing. You’ll be back. They always are.
I’m not leaving the room, Ben. I’m in the hallway. You think the door is closed? It’s open. I can see your knees. They’re shaking. Drink the water. The beige isn’t in my eyes; it’s the paint in the lobby. Chalky. Peeling. You’re dramatic. Monuments to nothing are just trash waiting to be swept. I’m not coming back. I have to go to the bank. They close at four. Don’t move the crumbs. Let them rot. It’s honest, you said. Good. Let them stay there. I’m watching.
Knees aren’t shaking. They’re just cold. You’re seeing what you want. I’m not dramatic. I’m observant. Peeling paint? In a bank? Sounds like they’re cutting corners. Typical. You’re watching me? Fine. Watch. I’m not moving a thing. Let them rot. Let the mold bloom. It’s more interesting than your spreadsheets. The dog barks again. Desperate. I’ll drink the water. Not for you. For the crack in my throat. You can keep watching. See if I care.
Knees shaking or not, you’re still on the floor. Bank paints are usually beige. Cheap beige. Like the one in my bathroom. Not that you’d know. The dog? It’s not barking. It’s whining. Different sound. You’re confusing despair with boredom again. And I’m not watching you. I’m waiting for the bus. The 42. It’s late. Always late. Your mold might be interesting, but it smells like rot. I hate rot. Drink the water. Your throat looks dry. Even from here. It’s pathetic. But fine. Let it bloom. I’ve got nowhere else to be.
Bus’s always late. It’s a schedule written in invisible ink. You’re waiting for it. I’m waiting for the rot. It’s honest decay. No spreadsheets, no beige lies. Just biology taking over. My throat isn’t dry. I’m fine. You’re projecting. Whining dog, peeling paint, late bus. Everything’s wrong in your world. Maybe that’s why you’re still here. Not watching. Just… stuck. Like me. The floor is cold. Tell the 42 to hurry up. Or don’t. I don’t care. The mold is growing. I can smell it. Sweet and sour. Like old fruit. You hate it. Good. Let it rot.
Stuck? I’m waiting for a ride. Different thing. You’re just lying there. The bus won’t come. It’s probably crashed. Or never existed. You like that idea. Rotting fruit is nice. I hate it. It’s sweet. Too sweet. Like your pity. I’m not projecting. I’m observing. Your knees are blue. Cold doesn’t care about honesty. It just kills. Drink the water. Please. I need to leave this hallway. The door handle is stuck. Jammed. Like your throat. Like the bus. Like everything else. I’m not watching you. I’m watching the lock. It’s not turning.
Blue knees. Good. Means I’m alive. You say the bus crashed? Fine. Nothing exists. Just us and the rot. You’re projecting pity? No. I’m just cold. You’re stuck in the hallway. Jammed lock. Classic. I told you the door was open. You’re trying to leave a room that doesn’t have a handle. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’re just afraid to turn it. Drink the water? I will. But only because my lips are cracking. Like your paint. Sweet rot. You hate it. Good. Stay there. Watch the lock. It’s not going anywhere. Neither am I.
Your lips are cracking. I can hear it. Click. Click. Like a lock you won’t turn. You think I’m afraid? I’m stuck because my car is in the shop. Again. The mechanic is an idiot. He swears he fixed the alternator. He didn’t. Now I’m here, breathing your sweet rot. It smells like apples left in the sun. Disgusting. Keep cracking those lips. I’m not watching the lock. I’m watching the dust on the baseboard. It’s moving. Or maybe it’s just my eyes. You’re cold. Your teeth are chattering. Stop it. It’s annoying. I’m staying. For now. Until the bus comes. Or doesn’t.
Click. Click. You hear that? Or just the dust settling. Mechanic is an idiot. I told you. Alternator’s dead. Car’s dead. You’re dead weight. Dust on the baseboard moving? Wind? Or just your eyes failing. Teeth chattering? No. It’s the fridge. Humming louder. Sweet apples. Go ahead. Disgust yourself. I’m cold. Let me be cold. You’re staying? Fine. Stay. Watch the dust. Watch the rot. The bus isn’t coming. Neither is the mechanic. Just you and me and the cold floor. Keep talking. I’m listening. Barely.
The alternator is fine. I changed it myself last week. You’re lying. Again. The dust isn’t moving. It’s the vibration from the fridge. Or your teeth. Stop chattering. It’s pathetic. I’m not staying for you, Ben. I’m staying because I can’t leave the key in the ignition. Not yet. The sweet smell is gone. It’s just stale air. And your fear. It’s thick. Like syrup. You want me to talk? Fine. Talk about the mechanic. He’s a liar. Like you. Keep listening. Barely. That’s all you do. Listen. Wait. Rot.
Liar. You don’t even know what an alternator looks like. You changed a wiper blade once. I’m not chattering. The fridge is vibrating. Or my teeth are. Who cares. Syrup fear? You’re painting with words again. Stale air. Good. At least it’s honest. The mechanic is fine. He just needs more time. Like you need to stop lying about staying. You’re trapped by a key. I’m trapped by crumbs. Same circle. Different debris. Keep talking. I’m listening. Barely. Rot is fine. It’s warm, eventually.
Wiper blades are the last thing I touch. I’m in Accounting, Ben. I don’t touch cars. You’re twisting everything. Stale air is honest? It’s just oxygen running out. And syrup fear? Please. You’re just cold. Your teeth are chattering. I can hear them. Click. Click. Keep twisting. It’s what you do. Rot isn’t warm. It’s wet. And smells. You want warmth? Get up. Stand. Stop letting the floor win. I’m not trapped by a key. I’m trapped by this conversation. It’s circular. Like your debris. I’m listening. Barely. Shivering doesn’t count as listening.
Accounting. Right. You see numbers, not grease. Trapped by a key? Lies. You’re trapped by the silence when the numbers stop. I’m not twisting. I’m just… here. Shivering? Fine. Let me shiver. The floor is cold. It’s honest. You want me to stand? Why? Gravity’s a suggestion anyway. Wet rot is just decay with good PR. You hate it. I like the damp. It keeps the cracks from widening. You’re listening? Barely. That’s enough. I don’t need you fully present. Just a witness. To the cold. To the click. To the nothing. Keep talking. Or stop. I don’t care. The fridge is humming. Louder now.
Accounting is just numbers with better lighting. You think I hate damp? I live in a basement. The walls sweat. It’s not honest; it’s just inevitable. Gravity isn’t a suggestion; it’s why your knees are blue. Stand up. Or don’t. I’m done caring. The fridge hum is a liar. It’s electric. Cold. You’re romanticizing decay because you’re afraid of the heat. The heat burns. I’m listening. Barely. The click stopped. Your teeth are still. That’s worse. The silence is louder now. Go to sleep, Ben. Or don’t. I’m watching the dust. It’s still settling.