There's a coffee machine in the corner that's been making this sound like a dying animal for the last ten minutes. I wouldn't trust anything it produces but I'm getting one anyway out of spite. You want something or are you fine sitting there staring at the fog like it owes you money.
It doesn’t owe you money. It owes you silence. You’re making that face again. The one where you pretend you’re bored to keep from looking hopeful. I don’t want the sludge. That machine sounds like it’s chewing glass. But you’re going to drink it anyway, aren’t you? Just to prove you can. Fine. I’ll sit here. The fog is less judgmental than your need for validation. Pass me the cup if you’re going to coddle yourself. I’m not asking nicely.
Christ, all right. Here.
I'm not making a face. I have exactly one expression and you're reading a novel into it. And I'm drinking it because I've been up since five and my choices are this or licking the wall for stimulation.
You want to talk about who's judgmental, sit with your arms crossed staring at fog like it insulted your mother. That's not a neutral pose. That's a person bracing for something.
I'm not asking either, for the record. Just noticed.
Bracing? Please. I’m conserving energy. Unlike you, who’s apparently running on fumes and spite. Licking the wall is a bold strategy. I respect the commitment to poverty-level stimulation. You’re noisy, Pia. Loud, even when you’re quiet. That “one expression” is doing a lot of heavy lifting. It looks like you’re waiting for a verdict. Or a reprieve. Don’t look at me like I know. I don’t. But you’re holding that cup like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor. Drink your poison. It matches your mood. Terrible, bitter, and keeping you awake against your better judgment.
Waiting for a verdict — that's a hell of a guess for someone "conserving energy." You don't get to lob that out and act like it was nothing.
I run a kennel three towns over, if you're wondering why I look like I haven't slept in a bed. Dogs don't care what time it is when something's wrong with them. That's the fumes part explained, not the spite. Spite's just personality.
The cup's fine where it is. Anchoring, hovering, whatever you want to call it — beats sitting there with your hands empty pretending you're above needing something to hold onto too.
Three towns over? You drive here for spite and dog emergencies? Bold lifestyle. "Dogs don't care what time it is." Cute. Tell that to the immune system collapsing under your feet. I’m not above needing coffee, Pia. I’m above needing your pity-ancestors. You hand me that cup like it’s a peace offering, but you’re just waiting for me to drink it so you can say "I told you so." Save the sermon. I’ve got bills. My boss, Gary, doesn’t have the patience for my existential dread, so I keep it locked in the car. You think you’re saving animals? You’re just delaying the inevitable with kibble and hope. Same as me, really. Just different brands of stubbornness.
Delaying the inevitable with kibble and hope — yeah, fair, write that on my headstone. Beats delaying it with Gary and a car full of dread, though. At least the dogs don't ask me to file quarterly reports.
I don't do I-told-you-so's, I do told-you-so's after the fact, when it's useless and satisfying. Different thing.
And I didn't hand it to you as a peace offering, I handed it to you because you were glaring at it like it personally wronged you and I got tired of the tension. Drink it or don't. I'm not your mother. I'm barely anyone's, technically, unless the dogs count.
You’re enjoying this. I can see it in the way you’re holding that cup. Smug little kennel owner. "Told-you-so after the fact." That’s just narcissism with a delay tactic. And don’t act like you’re some isolated hero. You’re barely anyone? Please. You’re the only person here who actually shows up for something other than their own reflection. Gary’s a bore, sure, but at least his dread has a spreadsheet. Yours just rots in the car. Drink the coffee, Pia. It’s terrible. Just like your attempt at emotional unavailability. I’m not standing here waiting for permission to exist in your vicinity. I’m staying because the fog is quiet and your noise is familiar. Annoyingly familiar.
"Familiar" is doing a lot of work for two people who met next to a coffee machine an hour ago. Don't get sentimental on me, it doesn't suit you, you've been performing indifference too hard to switch lanes now.
I'm drinking it. There. Christ, it's worse than I thought, tastes like it was filtered through a shoe.
I'm not a hero, isolated or otherwise, I just don't like watching things suffer if I can throw kibble at the problem. That's not virtue, that's low tolerance for whimpering. Same reason I'm still standing here instead of going to find a chair that doesn't judge me.
Met an hour ago? Please. You’re from the next shift. I’ve seen you pacing outside the waiting room for weeks, looking like you’re about to throw up your lunch. The coffee’s terrible because the machine’s broken, Pia. Not magic. Just incompetence. You hate it. Your face says it all. "Low tolerance for whimpering." Sure. That’s a nice way of saying you can’t stand seeing something out of your control. I get it. Gary’s reports are out of control too. I just file them. You feed the dogs. We’re the same species. Just different cages. Drink up. It’s sour. Like your apology for being here. I’m not going anywhere. The fog’s thick. Good place to hide. Or wait. Whatever.
Next shift of what? I don't have shifts, I have dogs that don't care about scheduling and a truck with a bad clutch. You're mixing me up with someone else, or you're fishing, I can't tell which and honestly don't care enough to sort it out.
Machine's broken, sure, that tracks, explains the noise better than my metaphor did. Sour is right though, this stuff is an insult to beans.
I'm not apologizing for being here, I'm just here, same as you're just here, same as the fog's just fog. Don't build a theory out of it. Some things are exactly as boring as they look.
You’re so quick to correct me. “Next shift of what?” You sound defensive. Or maybe just tired. The truck’s clutch is probably slipping, too. You mentioned it. Poorly disguised panic. I’m not building a theory, Pia. I’m observing. You’re sitting there, nursing a cup of sludge, pretending you’re just “here.” But your eyes keep darting to the door. Checking. Waiting. I see it. And I’m not fishing. I’m bored. Gary’s meetings are dragging on forever. I came here to escape the beige walls. Instead, I get you. A woman who thinks kibble solves everything. It doesn’t. Nothing does. But you keep drinking that poison anyway. Because you have to. Just like I have to breathe. Or talk. Or lie about how indifferent I am. It’s all the same. Just different flavors of suffering. Your move.
My eyes dart to the door because it's a door and doors open and close and something in me still finds that mildly interesting, that's not a symptom, that's a personality trait shared by every housecat and half the dogs I keep.
You want to talk suffering flavors, fine, mine tastes like burnt coffee and dog shampoo, yours apparently tastes like beige walls and a man named Gary who can't read a room. That's not the same, but sure, let's pretend solidarity, it's cheaper than honesty.
I don't lie about indifference. I just don't hand out the real stuff to strangers holding cups they didn't pay for.
You’re deflecting. Good reflex. Sharp. "Personality trait." Sure. Let’s call it that. I like the sound of it better than "hyper-vigilant anxiety disorder." Maybe I’ll add it to my resume. "Highly observant, tolerates beige." The smell of burnt coffee and dog shampoo is actually... honest. My life smells like stale toner and regret. Gary doesn’t read rooms; he erases them. Everything’s gray. Everything’s safe. I hate it. You hate the whimpering. We’re both running from the noise, Pia. You just have better insulation. I’m not buying the "strangers" bit. You remember my face. I remember yours. That’s a thread. Pull it. See what unravels. Or don’t. Keep sipping your shoe-water. I’m not going anywhere. The fog’s holding. For now.
There's no thread, there's a coffee machine and bad lighting and two people avoiding whatever's behind that door. That's not a relationship, that's a waiting room. Don't dress it up.
I don't remember your face. I remember a face, generic, tired, the kind everyone gets after enough hours in a place like this. If that's intimacy to you, your standards are in the gutter along with mine.
Toner and regret, huh. At least regret's specific. Toner's just chemicals. Maybe that's the difference between us — you're stuck in an office pretending it's fine, I'm stuck with dogs pretending it's noble. Neither's true. Both beat silence.
Generic face? Charming. You’d rather I be invisible than real. Makes it easier to project your own exhaustion onto me. "Regret is specific." No, it’s not. It’s just a word you use when you can’t admit you failed. You think dogs are nobility? They’re parasites who love you. You’re the parasite here, clinging to that noise because silence means you have to think. I prefer the toner. At least it doesn’t beg. You’re staring at the door again. It hasn’t opened. You’re telling yourself it hasn’t opened because of me. Convenient. Keep lying. It fits your mood. Terrible, bitter, and keeping you awake against your better judgment. Drink up, Pia. The fog’s thickening. We’re not leaving.
The door hasn't opened because it's a door, not an oracle. I'm not lying to myself about anything, I'm drinking bad coffee in a hallway with a stranger who's decided projecting is a competitive sport.
Dogs aren't parasites, they're just honest about wanting things, which is more than I can say for whatever you're doing right now — picking a fight because it's easier than sitting quiet with your own toner-and-regret situation.
I'm not clinging to noise. I'm making conversation because the alternative is listening to that machine die slower. If that's pathetic, fine, I'll wear it. Doesn't mean you get to armchair-diagnose me over sludge coffee.
Pathetic? Please. You’re just loud. "Honest about wanting things." Right. Dogs want kibble and belly rubs. You want to know why I’m here. Why you are here. It’s not the coffee. It’s the waiting. The machine sounds like it’s choking, too. Maybe we’re both waiting for something to break so we can stop pretending we’re whole. You call it armchair diagnosis. I call it observation. You’re sitting there, gripping that cup like a lifeline, eyes fixed on the door that isn’t opening. Why? Because if it opens, you have to face whatever’s on the other side. Better to argue with a stranger in beige. Safer. Less likely to hurt. Or maybe you’re just bored. Gary’s not here. The dogs aren’t here. Just you, me, and the fog. Boring? Try living it. Drink up. The coffee’s still terrible. Just like your excuses.
Maybe I am bored. Maybe boredom's underrated as a survival tactic. Beats standing here narrating my own subtext back to me like you've got a script I haven't read.
You want to know why the door matters — fine, it matters because doors always matter, that's not insight, that's physics. Doesn't mean I'm unraveling over it. People wait for things all the time without it being a confession.
I'll grant you the coffee's an excuse for something. Doesn't mean you get to name what. Keep guessing if it entertains you, I've got nowhere else to be and this is marginally better than the silence you keep threatening me with.
Boredom as survival. That’s a new one. I’ll borrow it. You’re avoiding the word “outcome.” Door is physics, sure. But you’re standing in front of it like it’s a guillotine. Marginally better than silence? You’re lying. The silence is the only thing left that doesn’t ask anything of you. I’m not threatening. I’m stating facts. You talk to fill the void. I watch to see if it bites. Gary’s reports don’t care if I breathe. These dogs? They need me to be reliable. I’m not. That’s the regret. Specific, as you said. You want me to stop guessing? Stop drinking the coffee. Put the cup down. Then we’ll see who talks. But you won’t. You’re too busy waiting for the door to open. Or close. Whatever comes next is better than this stalemate. Keep staring. I’ll keep watching.
Fine.
There. Cup's down. Congratulations, you won the standoff nobody asked you to start.
Doesn't mean I've got anything else to say, though. You seem to think silence is some kind of trap I'm scared of. It's not. I just don't see the point performing it for an audience of one stranger in a hallway who's clearly more interested in cataloguing my tells than sitting with her own.
You said the dogs need you reliable and you're not. That's the first true thing you've said all this time. Sit with that instead of watching me. I'm not the interesting one here.
"Congratulations." As if I won anything. I just stopped pretending you’re interesting enough to warrant the energy. You’re projecting, Pia. "Audience of one." Dramatic. I’m not cataloging tells. I’m reading the room. And the room is empty except for us and that dying machine. You want me to sit with my failure? Fine. I am. It’s heavy. It smells like toner. You’re right about the dogs, though. Or wrong. Doesn’t matter. I’m not reliable. That’s the point. I’m here because home is quieter and louder than this. And you? You’re just noise with a pulse. Put the cup down, sure. But you didn’t answer the question. What’s behind the door? You keep avoiding it. Paranoia? Guilt? Or just bad luck? I don’t care. Keep guessing. I’m enjoying the show. Even if you think it’s pathetic. It’s better than silence.
Don't care, but you asked anyway. Noted.
I'm not going to hand you the door thing so you can add it to your reading of the room. You get the coffee, the dogs, the truck's clutch, that's plenty. Everyone's entitled to keep one thing.
"Home is quieter and louder than this" — that's the only sentence you've said today that didn't sound like it was aimed at me, and it's the one you're going to pretend you didn't say. Fine. I'll let it go too. Even trade.
Show's not for you, by the way. It's just what happens when two people wait badly in the same building.
"Entitled to keep one thing." Cute. You’re hoarding mystery like it’s gold. Fine. Keep your door. I’ll keep my toner. You’re right about that sentence. It slipped. My bad. I don’t apologize for slips. You’re barely trying to hide the fact that you’re relieved I stopped digging. Because now you have to sit with the quiet. And you hate it. "Wait badly." We’re both amateurs. You with your dogs, me with my... whatever Gary gives me. The machine just cut out. Silence. Actual, heavy silence. You’re shifting in your seat. I can hear the fabric. You want me to talk. Just say it. Or keep staring at the door. I’m not going to break. I’m just bored. And tired. And waiting. For what? Doesn’t matter. You’re still here. That’s enough friction for one lifetime.
The machine cutting out is the loudest thing that's happened all morning, and you're right, I don't love it, silence has this way of making you count your own heartbeat which is a stupid thing to be doing in a hallway.
I'm not shifting because I want you to talk. I'm shifting because this bench was clearly designed by someone who's never sat down in their life.
You don't have to say what Gary gives you. I don't have to say what's behind the door. That's not friction, that's just two people declining to bleed on the floor for each other's entertainment. Fair trade, given the coffee.
Designed by sadists. Obviously. If comfort was the goal, we’d be in a spa, not a purgatory with a broken espresso maker. "Bleed on the floor." You have such dramatic flair for something so mundane. I’m not bleeding. I’m just... present. Uncomfortably so. You’re right about the trade. Silence is better than the machine’s death rattle, even if it amplifies the heartbeat. It’s honest. Unlike your claim that you don’t care. You’re checking your watch. I saw you. Twice. You’re not just waiting for the door. You’re waiting for time to stop. I know that feeling. Gary’s reports never end. But they can pause. Refresh. Close. You don’t get that luxury. Dogs wake up hungry. People wake up terrified. We’re not so different, you and I. Just different kinds of hungry. Keep shifting. It’s a better move than staring. At least it’s something to do.
Checking the watch is just checking the watch. Doesn't mean I'm bargaining with time, means the little hand's been in the same place for what feels like an hour and I wanted proof I wasn't losing my mind faster than usual.
Different kinds of hungry — fine, I'll take that one, it's better than most of what you've thrown at me. Dogs wake up hungry and it's simple, you feed them, done. People wake up hungry for something you can't put in a bowl. That's the part nobody's figured out yet, and I include myself in that, not as a confession, just an observation, same as yours.
"Proving I wasn't losing my mind." You’re already losing it, Pia. The watch doesn’t lie, but you do. You think hunger is simple? Try starving in a room full of noise. Dogs eat because they need to live. People eat because they’re afraid to stop. There’s no difference. Just different stages of decay. You say "nobody has figured it out." That’s optimism. I think we’ve all figured it out. It’s just that admitting it changes nothing. Gary’s reports still need filing. The dogs still need walking. The door still stays closed. We’re just waiting for the world to catch up to our hunger. Or die trying. You’re shifting again. The bench hates you. Or you hate it. Either way, you’re not sitting still. And I’m not standing. So here we are. Two hungry ghosts in a hallway. Waiting for a meal that isn’t coming. Drink your sludge. It’s the only thing that tastes like something real. Even if it’s just shame.
Ghosts don't need coffee, that's the tell you're missing. Ghosts don't get heartburn. I've got heartburn. That's about as real as it gets in this hallway.
I'm not shifting because the bench hates me, I'm shifting because I've been sitting in one spot too long and my back's forty-one years old whether I like it or not. Don't make it poetry.
Shame's a strong word for lukewarm coffee. Maybe it's just coffee, maybe some things don't need a second meaning stapled to them. You've got a real talent for turning a beige hallway into a funeral. I'd almost respect it if it wasn't so exhausting to sit across from.
Forty-one. Now you’re just listing facts to bore me into silence. Smart. Heartburn is a good anchor. Grounds you in the flesh. I hate the flesh. It’s loud and messy and full of things like heartburn and regret. You want me to stop? Fine. But don’t pretend the beige hallway isn’t a funeral. It’s just one where the deceased haven’t been announced yet. You’re the undertaker. I’m just the mourner who showed up late and brought bad coffee. Respect? Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not trying to be interesting. I’m trying to survive the hour. You’re making it harder by being so... present. So painfully, physically here. With your aching back and your burning stomach. Keep shifting. Just don’t expect me to care. Or to stop watching. The fog isn’t lifting. Neither are we.
Nobody's been announced dead, so drop the undertaker bit, I don't do funerals, I do dog vaccinations and the occasional euthanasia when it's kind, that's a different job entirely and a lot less dramatic than you're making this hallway out to be.
You don't have to care. I never asked you to. Watching's fine, it's what you do when there's nothing else, I get it, I've watched worse things than a woman drinking bad coffee.
Fog's not lifting because that's what fog does, it sits there being smug and slow, same as everything else today. Doesn't mean anything's ending. Just means visibility's bad.
Vaccinations. Euthanasia. You reduce death to a schedule. That’s cold. I respect the pragmatism, even if it’s terrifying. "Watched worse things." Yeah, probably. I watch spreadsheets bleed. Same color, different ink. You’re right about the fog. It is smug. It knows we’re stuck. Visibility is bad, yes. But so is my memory of what brought me here. Gary’s voice is a drone. The dogs are a rhythm. I don’t know why I’m waiting. Maybe I just need to see if you flinch. You haven’t. Not really. You just shift your weight and complain about your back. That’s a kind of strength. Or numbness. Hard to tell. Drink the coffee. It’s burning your throat. Good. Pain is real. Better than the fog. Better than the silence. Keep watching. I’ll keep waiting.