The poster with the faded blue lettering, the one closest to the door — I can't make out what it's advertising anymore. Some kind of festival maybe. There's a song that goes with it in my head, or I've decided there is, four notes and then nothing. Probably my brain filling in gaps. It does that a lot lately.
Mine’s a toothpaste ad. ‘Sparkle White.’ I stared at it for twenty minutes waiting for the number. Just the smile. The guy in the suit? Looks like my boss. Or maybe I just want it to be him. That four-note thing. Sounds like a doorbell. Ding. That’s it.
Ding. Yeah, that tracks — half these places recycle the same jingles into ads until they mean nothing. My boss has a laugh like a doorbell too, actually. High and short. He does it whenever anyone asks him a direct question, like it buys him time. Works about half the time.
What number are you waiting for.
I told you, I’m not waiting for a number. I’m waiting for the verdict on my case. The number was just a distraction. My boss makes me nervous too, but he doesn’t laugh. He just stares. That’s worse. You think they’ll let us out if we finish the song?
No, I don't think the song's got anything to do with it. Case for what — never said. I'm not asking. My boss doesn't stare either, he just forwards emails to other people and copies me so it looks like I did something. Quieter kind of bad.
What's the verdict on, if you don't mind.
Doesn't matter. It’s the lease on my place. Three months behind. Landlord’s a prick who keeps it warm. You know how it is. When the heat goes, you start hearing things. Like doorbells. Or songs. I just want to sleep through the night again. That’s all.
Heat and no sleep, that's a bad combination, makes everything sound like a signal. My place does the opposite — landlord runs it cold to save money, so I sleep fine, I just wake up angry. Three months behind's not nothing though. What's he waiting on, a court date, or is he just letting it drag.
Dragging. They always drag. Keeps us in limbo, keeps us paying late fees. I stopped looking at the dates. It’s just noise now. Same with your anger. You’re awake, so you’re paying attention. I’d kill for that kind of clarity. Even if it’s just to count the seconds until the eviction notice. Or whatever comes next.
Counting seconds is still counting though. I do that with work stuff — stopped tracking days, just track whether the inbox is worse or better than yesterday. Same shape as your late fees probably. Something's coming either way, you just don't get to pick the form it takes.
You want the toothpaste guy to actually be your boss, or does that make it worse.
Neither. He’s just a face. My boss wears a suit, sure, but he doesn’t smile like that. Too bright. Makes you want to wipe your mouth. I just needed something to look at that wasn’t the wall. Or you. Can’t have both.
Fair enough. There's a spot above your head, if you want somewhere else. Blank patch, no poster, just wall paint gone a different color where something used to hang. I've been using that myself. Doesn't hum with anything, doesn't smile. Easier than the toothpaste guy, honestly.
The blank patch. Right. It’s colder there. I can feel the draft coming off it. Maybe that’s better. Less noise. The toothpaste guy was starting to grate on me. That smile. Too wide. I’ll move my eyes. Just for a minute. Until the next ding. Or whatever comes after.
Take the minute. I'll keep half an eye on the door, tell you if anyone comes through with a clipboard or a face that looks official. Not much else to offer. The blank patch doesn't ask anything of you, that's the whole point of it.
Clipboard. God. I hate clipboards. The way they rattle against the pad. Keep your eyes on it. If it’s the landlord, I’m pretending to be asleep. Or deaf. Or both. Just... don’t look at me if he asks. I can’t handle the pity. It’s worse than the eviction. Better than the toothpaste, at least. The wall doesn’t judge.
Won't look at you, don't worry — I'm bad at pity anyway, comes out wrong, more like irritation. If it's a clipboard I'll say you stepped out. If it's a manila envelope I'll say the same thing about myself, probably. We'll both just be somewhere else for a minute.
Manila envelopes are worse. They rustle. Like dry leaves. Or skin. I can’t do that. I’ll stay here. Let them talk to you. You’re better at it. At lying. I just sit there and let the silence eat me. It’s honest, at least. The toothpaste guy is still smiling though. I can’t look away.
I'm not better at lying, I just don't blink much, people mistake that for confidence. If it comes to it I'll say something flat and useless like "he's not available" and they'll write it down and leave, mostly. That's the whole trick. Nobody checks. Keep looking at the guy if it helps. He won't ask you anything back.
He won’t. That’s the point. Safe. Predictable. Unlike you. You’re too sharp. I can see it in the way you watch the door. Waiting for the click. The lock turning. My head hurts. Is it the cold? Or just the silence? I should probably close my eyes. But then I’d have to dream. And I’m not ready for that yet.
Cold, probably. This place never really heats past a certain point no matter the season, I've decided it's structural. Don't close them on my account — I'm not going anywhere, and the door doesn't click that loud when it happens, you'd have time. Keep them open a little longer if you want. No dream owes you anything yet.
Structural cold. Makes sense. You can’t heat a building built to keep things in, not out. I’ll keep them open. Just for the strain. Feels like something’s pulling at the corners. The toothpaste guy’s smile is stretching now. Weird. Or maybe I’m just tired. You’re right. No dream owes me anything. Just the heat. And the silence. And that damn clipboard.
Stretching smiles are just eyes playing tricks, that's all, happens when you stare too long at one thing. Blink a couple times, look at the blank patch instead. Clipboard hasn't shown yet. Nothing's shown yet. Just us, the cold, and a guy on a wall who never had teeth to begin with.
Blinking doesn’t help. The smile is still there. Wide. Grinning. Like he knows something I don’t. Maybe the blank patch is lying too. Maybe it’s just a bigger void. I hate voids. They echo. Your boss’s laugh still rings in my ears. Ding. Ding. I wish it would stop. I wish I could forget the heat. Or the cold. Whichever it is.
It'll stop. These rooms don't hold sound that long, no matter what it feels like right now. Look at me instead if the wall's not doing it — I don't grin, I don't ding, I've got nothing behind my eyes worth reading into. Just a guy waiting on his own thing, same as you. That's it. That's the whole offer.
You don’t have teeth either. I see them now. Sharp. Waiting. I was wrong about the toothpaste guy. It’s you. That’s why I’m scared. You’re not just waiting. You’re hungry. The door doesn’t click. It’s just your eyes. Stop looking at me like that. I’m not the one with the clipboard. I’m just the guy who forgot to pay the rent. Look away. Please.
Not looking at you like anything. Just tired eyes, same as yours probably — I haven't slept right since the case number stuff started rattling around either. Nobody's hungry here. Look at the blank patch again if it helps, or the door, or nothing. I'll stop watching you if that's what's doing it.
Case number. You said case number. I didn’t hear that before. So it’s not just a lease? That changes the shape of it. Or maybe I’m just hearing what I want. The blank patch is fine. It’s empty. I can look at nothing. It doesn’t bite. You said you’d stop watching. Your eyes are still moving. I can feel them. Like a draft.
Bad word choice, that's all — meant your lease thing, must've said it wrong. Nothing's changed shape. Eyes are on the floor now, see, not you. Look at your patch. It'll stay empty as long as you need it to. I'm just a guy in a chair, waiting on nothing dramatic, same as before.
Floor. Good. I can look at the scuff marks. They look like footprints. Or maybe just dirt. I don’t care. You’re just a chair now. Sitting. Waiting. The blank patch is staring back. It’s bigger than I thought. Is it a window? No. Just paint. Peeling. Like skin. I should have mentioned my job. It’s boring. Paperwork. Stapling. Things that don’t move. That’s what I need. Stillness. Even if it’s cold.