rubs eyes God, how long have I been sitting here. Feels like hours. There's this jar of buttons on the table by the window, I've basically counted them twice out of boredom. Somebody's idea of decorating a waiting room, I guess. You been here long or did I just... miss you arriving?
Doesn't matter. I was napping in the corner chair, dead to the world, until you started mumbling about buttons. Counting them? That's rich. I've been staring at the same cracked tile near my boot for twenty minutes, waiting for someone to tell me which line I'm in. The air in here is thick enough to chew. Don't ask me what I'm waiting for, I barely know what I'm supposed to do once they call my name.
Yeah, don't worry, I wasn't gonna ask. Not my business and honestly I've got enough going on in my own head without adding yours to it. The air thing though — you're right, it's like breathing through a towel in here. There's a vent up there that's clearly decorative, does nothing.
Cracked tile's a better use of your attention than the buttons, probably. At least it doesn't move when you look at it.
Right, buttons are trouble. They roll, they hide. A cracked tile is honest; it stays broken. I looked at it too long and started seeing faces in the grout lines. Must be the lack of oxygen. Or maybe just the coffee I had before this, the one that tasted like wet cardboard. Anyway, my shift at the warehouse starts in an hour, or so I think. They usually don't call the buses on time. You just keep counting the buttons if it helps pass the time.
Wet cardboard coffee, that's specific — sounds like you've had it before and just keep going back like an idiot, no offense. Warehouse though, that explains the boots. I do something duller, if you can believe that, some office thing with spreadsheets nobody reads. I'd trade you honestly, at least you're moving around all day instead of watching a cursor blink.
Trade you? Please. My boots smell like diesel and regret. You think a cursor blinking is better? At least in my world, if you drop a box, something loud happens. Here, the only thing that breaks is a silence nobody notices. I wouldn't trade it if you paid me. The warehouse is exhausting, sure, but the spreadsheets sound like a slow suffocation. Just... don't ask me to help you fill one out later. I'm still half-asleep and my brain feels like it's packed in wet wool.
"Packed in wet wool" — steal that, might use it on my next performance review, describes the whole department honestly. And nobody's asking you to fill out anything, don't worry, I wouldn't inflict that on someone still coming out of a nap. You want the loud noise, I want the silence, neither of us actually has it. That's probably the whole joke of it.
Yeah, the joke's that we both want the opposite of what we have. I'd trade my loud dropped boxes for a quiet spreadsheet any day. But silence gets weird after a while. You start hearing your own blood flow. Maybe that's why I fell asleep. The noise is predictable; the silence is just waiting for something worse. Anyway, the manager just walked past the window. Looks like we might actually get called soon. Or maybe he's just going to the break room. Hope he's not coming for you first.
Hope he's not either, honestly, I'm not ready for whatever this is. He didn't even look in here, just kept walking, so maybe it's a false alarm. Story of waiting rooms, isn't it — somebody walks by and everyone straightens up for nothing. Blood flow thing though, that's unsettling, now I'm gonna notice mine too. Thanks for that.
Don't thank me, I didn't mean it as a gift. Now you're stuck listening to the thump-thump in your ears while that manager ghosts around the corner. Classic misdirection. You straighten up, he keeps walking. Leaves you feeling like a fool for having hope. I'm just going to stare at that vent again. Maybe if I focus hard enough, it'll finally start blowing air. At least it's a problem I can see, unlike whatever's waiting on the other side of that door.
Yeah, well. Whatever's waiting on the other side of my door I've mostly stopped guessing about, doesn't help. You just sit here long enough it turns into background noise, like the vent. Stare at it with me, maybe between the two of us we manifest some airflow. Low bar, but it's something to aim for that isn't the door.
Fine, I'm staring. It's a dust bunnies party in there. I bet if we keep staring, the grout lines will shift too, just like the buttons did for you. Don't get too comfortable with the silence though; I heard a leak somewhere, maybe a pipe behind the wall. Sounded like someone breathing through a tube. If we both listen, maybe we can figure out if it's the building or just us going crazy. Either way, it beats waiting for a number that never gets called.
Building, probably. Or hoping it's the building — the alternative's worse, two strangers going quietly crazy in the same waiting room, that's a bad way to spend an afternoon. Listen for the leak, I'll watch the vent, you watch the tile. Divide and conquer. Feels less like waiting if you've got a job, even a fake one nobody assigned you.
Right, pretend jobs. I'll take the tile faces, you take the vent ghosts. If the leak turns out to be a rat, we're both winners. If it's just the pipes screaming, well, at least we have a reason to complain to someone who won't care. My shift at the warehouse starts in an hour, or so I tell myself. Maybe the manager's just delaying the opening. Or maybe we're stuck here until the building decides to breathe again. Doesn't matter. Keep listening.
Rat's my bet, honestly, this building's got the energy for it. And nobody who works here will care either way, that's the constant across every waiting room I've ever sat in — the complaint desk is always staffed by someone actively pretending not to hear you. I'll keep listening. You keep an eye on that door for both of us, I've stopped trusting my own read on it.
That's a solid bet, a rat fits the vibe better than a leak. At least a rat has a purpose. I'm watching the door, but if it opens and it's just someone else waiting, we can pretend we won. If it's the manager with the rat on a leash, we lose big time. Just... don't make a sound if you hear scratching. I need to convince myself this place is quiet. My head is still too heavy from that nap to deal with a rodent.
Not a sound, promise. Scratching stays between the walls as far as I'm concerned, none of my business, keeps it that way. You go back to convincing yourself it's quiet in here, I'll go back to counting buttons I've already counted twice. Between the two of us we're covering every possible way to avoid actually thinking about why we're sitting here. Efficient, in a stupid kind of way.
Stupid efficient. I like that. Just don't lose count on the forty-seventh button, or we'll both know the rat actually talked to you. Silence is fine. Silence means nobody's coming to tell us we're in the wrong line. My head's clearing up a bit, just enough to regret that wet cardboard coffee. If the door opens and it's a rat, I'm blaming you for the noise. If it's the manager, I'm blaming the building. Just... keep the quiet going.
Deal. Rat's on me, manager's on the building, and if it turns out to be neither, we agree to never speak of any of this again. Keep the coffee regret going too, misery loves company and all that. I'll watch button forty-seven like a hawk.
Perfect. No talk of it if we're wrong. Button forty-seven is a good choice; the blue ones always feel heavier. I'll keep my eyes on the door, just in case the manager brings the rat. If nothing happens by the time my shift starts, I'm leaving. I'm not staying for a mystery rat. Just... don't blink on that button. I need something to believe is real while we wait.
Not blinking. It's real, I swear it, sitting right there being aggressively blue and heavier than the rest for no good reason. You go when you gotta go, don't wait around on my account — some mysteries aren't worth missing a bus for. I'll hold the fort here with the button and whatever's behind that wall.
Good. If I leave, the rat gets my spot. Don't let the blue button roll off the table, it's the only thing anchoring me here. The wall scratching stopped, which is worse. Means it's either dead or watching us. I'm heading out in five, regardless. You can keep your fort if you want. Just don't get too attached to button forty-seven, it's probably gonna vanish when they finally call the number.
Yeah, probably. Buttons vanish, numbers get called eventually, rats resume their business — that's just how waiting rooms go, nothing sticks around long enough to matter. Go catch your bus, don't miss it over a jar of buttons and a maybe-dead rat. Good talking to you, weird as it was. Hope whatever's on the other side of your door isn't as bad as the coffee.
Same. Don't let the blue one roll away. If it does, the whole line's a lie. My head feels lighter now, weirdly. Maybe it was just the air. Catch you in the next lifetime, or when the bus actually shows up. Don't wait for me. The rat's probably just a rat. Or it's not. Doesn't matter now.