There's a vending machine down the hall if you want something — I'd go myself but my legs feel like they've been on hold for an hour. Anything sound good, or are you one of those people who doesn't eat when they're stressed. I'm the opposite. I could eat a whole bag of those pretzel things right now out of pure spite.
Pretzels are a terrible idea when you're this hungry. Just salt and crunch, nothing real. I tried eating one of those robot-dog sandwiches earlier and it tasted like wet cardboard. The machine is probably stuck on the second row again, always jams there. I saw a guy spend twenty minutes shaking it last week. Might as well wait here until someone else fixes it. Or just starve. It's cheaper. What's the point of hoarding snacks if you're not going to share them with someone who actually needs them?
"Robot-dog sandwiches" — that's a hell of a way to describe the tuna wrap, but accurate probably. And yeah don't shake it, you'll just get it wedged worse, I watched a guy do that at the municipal pool vending machine once and they had to call maintenance, whole afternoon gone. Public pools always have the worst snack setup. Overpriced ice pops and nothing else. I'd take wet cardboard over that.
Exactly, wet cardboard has less expectation. At least you know it won't trick you. I swear the ice pops there are just frozen sugar water with no flavor. My brother tried to complain once and the lifeguard just laughed. Now I just buy a soda and drink it standing up in the corner. Keeps me from thinking too much about how hungry I am. You want the pretzels? Go ahead, grab 'em. I'll just sit here and watch the door. Someone has to.
"Watch the door" — expecting someone specific, or just don't like your back to it? I'll take the pretzels if you're offering, thanks, but I'm splitting them, you're clearly not as fine with starving as you're pretending. And standing in the corner drinking soda so you don't think — I do that with coffee, except it's not even about hunger, it's just easier than sitting still with my own head some days.
Don't split them, you'll just eat the whole bag anyway. I'm not guarding the door for anyone specific, just avoiding the awkward silence when someone walks by and we have to pretend we're not waiting. Coffee is better, at least it burns going down. Pretzels just sit there like rocks. Fine, take the bag, but leave me the top layer. I need something to keep my hands busy while I wait for the lift. My back is killing me from sitting.
Top layer's yours, deal. The lift — that where your news is coming from, upstairs? I keep doing the thing where I check my phone every four minutes like it's going to ring louder if I stare at it. Hasn't worked yet. Back pain's the worst kind of boring problem, nobody wants to hear about it and you can't even blame it on anything interesting.
News doesn't come from the lift, I just hate elevators. Too quiet, too many people pretending not to sweat. My news is usually a text from my sister about the aunt who won't leave the nursing home alone. Boring, tragic, and long. You staring at your phone isn't going to make it ring. Mine's been dead for an hour. I threw the charger across the room in a huff. Now I just wait. The pretzels should be enough distraction, stop asking about the lift.
Fair, forget the lift. Charger across the room — that's the most honest thing anyone's said to me all day. Mine's still got battery and I still haven't looked in ten minutes, which is somehow worse. Nursing home aunts are their own genre of dread, the slow kind. At least my thing has an actual deadline attached to it. Small mercies. Eat your top layer before I change my mind about the split.
Deadlines are just a way to make the waiting feel productive. I prefer the slow dread; at least the clock doesn't mock you. Top layer is already gone, don't look at me like that. If you want more, start chewing on the bottom. My sister texted again while we were talking, something about the roof leaking. She never fixes anything, just calls me to panic. I told her to call a plumber, not me. Now she's probably ignoring me until the water hits the ceiling.
Roofs and plumbers, sure, that always ends with someone standing in a bucket at midnight regardless. Your sister sounds like she's outsourced all her crises to you specifically — you ever notice you're the emergency contact for everyone but nobody's yours? Bottom layer's mine now, you forfeited it by monologuing. And no, I'm not looking at you like anything, that's just my face when I'm hungry.
I'm not monologuing, I'm just stating facts. Being the emergency contact is a tax I didn't agree to pay. You're right, nobody calls me unless they're bleeding. The pretzels are gone anyway, so whatever. Bottom layer or top, it's all just salt. Stop eating them so fast, you'll get a headache. My back is screaming now, literally screaming. Maybe I should just go find the plumber myself. See if she likes that idea.
Now who's the one who won't leave. Your sister calls for a shoulder, not a plumber, you know that — she'll be annoyed if you actually fix it, robs her of the panic. Go find one if it gets you off this bench though, your back clearly wants you standing. I'll hold the door, or watch it, whichever one you were doing. Someone should, apparently.
She won't be annoyed, she'll be relieved, then guilt-tripped. That's the cycle. I'm not getting up just to prove a point about plumbing. The pretzels are gone, the coffee is cold, and my back isn't going to fix itself by standing. You hold the door if you want. I'm staying put. If the roof collapses, fine. At least I'll have the dignity of not walking to a plumber while my legs feel like wet paper. Just eat the last crumbs.
Wet paper legs, wet cardboard sandwich — you've got a whole theme going today. Fine, staying put's a legitimate strategy, I respect the commitment to inertia. Crumbs are gone, by the way, ate them while you were building your case against the plumber. We're both just sitting here now with empty hands, waiting on things that won't hurry up for us. Comforting, in a bleak sort of way.
Bleak is right. At least the crumbs are gone, no crumbs to pick at. My phone buzzed just now, probably spam. I'm not looking. If it's my sister, it's the roof. If it's the plumber, it's the bill. Either way, nothing changes while we sit here. Wet paper legs it is. You have a good day sitting there, then. I'll be here when the dust settles.
Dust settling implies something's actually gonna move first. I'll believe it when I see it. Go ahead and not look — I get it, some things are better left buzzing in your pocket than confirmed. I'm not going anywhere either, this bench and I have an understanding now. Let me know if the roof wins.
The roof hasn't won yet, just leaking. Classic slow bleed. I'm not going anywhere either. This bench has gotten comfortable in a terrible way. Just don't start humming while we wait, that's how we get stuck here for hours. My legs are still wet paper, but at least the silence is consistent.
Not humming, promise, though I make no guarantees about tapping my foot, that's a different affliction entirely. Consistent silence is underrated honestly — better than someone narrating the wait out loud every five minutes. We'll just sit here, slow bleed roof, dead phone, wet paper legs, whatever news is or isn't coming. Least the company's not asking me to talk about it.
Foot tapping is fine, just keep it rhythmical. Narrating the wait is exhausting, turns the air stale. I'm done talking anyway, my throat is dry from all this salt. The silence is actually useful; it makes the waiting feel like work you're doing. Just don't get comfortable. That's how we end up sleeping here.
Rhythmical, noted. I won't get comfortable — comfortable's how you end up explaining yourself to a nurse or a security guard, neither of which sounds appealing right now. Dry throat, get water if the machine's not still jammed. I'll keep the tapping quiet. Rest of it's just waiting, same as it was ten minutes ago.
If the water machine is jammed, it's jammed. Drinking water won't fix the waiting. And I'm not asking a nurse for directions. Just keep the tapping light, that's all. I'm trying to ignore the sound of my own pulse. It's getting loud enough to match your foot.
Pulse racing is its own kind of clock, worse than the one on the wall honestly, at least the wall clock doesn't know anything. I'll keep it light then, barely a tap. We can just sit here not asking each other the obvious thing. Salt's still stuck in my teeth. Small problems are easier to focus on than big ones, that's the whole trick of it.
Salt in the teeth is real. You can taste the waste of it. Big problems just sit there, heavy. Small problems you can spit out. I'm glad you're not asking. The machine is still there, silent. I'm not thirsty enough to fight it. Just let the salt stay. It proves we're here.