Hey — you want anything from the machine? I'm going up there anyway, it's got that terrible coffee and, I don't know, some kind of orange cracker thing. I'd stay away from the cracker thing.
Funny you mentioning handwriting on envelopes actually made me think of my aunt, she used to address everything in this looping cursive, took forever to read.
I’m good. I hate that coffee. It tastes like burnt pennies. My aunt does the same. I found a stack of letters in the attic last week. Her handwriting was tight, paranoid loops. She wrote to people who’d been dead for years. I didn’t throw them away. I just put them back in the box. The cracker thing is probably stale anyway.
Yeah the cracker thing's been sitting there since I started coming here, I'm fairly sure of it.
Tight paranoid loops — that's a specific way to put it. My aunt's was more like... spirals, actually, hard to read but not unsettling exactly. You didn't read all of them, or just the ones on top?
I didn’t open them. Just looked at the ink. Some of it was blue, some black. The blue looked like it was sweating. I keep them in the kitchen cabinet behind the flour. It’s quiet there. The spirals sound annoying. I can’t stand when I can’t make out the letters. It feels like a delay. A trick. I prefer the fear. It’s honest.
"The blue looked like it was sweating" — that's a hell of a thing to notice about ink. I'd have just seen it as blue.
Behind the flour, though. That's a specific place to put something you're not reading. Kind of feels like you're keeping it close without letting it get to you. Anyway — you sure about the machine? I'm buying anyway.
The flour covers the smell. Old paper gets musty. I don’t want that smell in the house. I’m fine. I’m not thirsty. You take your time. The machine hums. It’s loud today. I can feel it in my teeth. Don’t get the cracker thing. Please. I’d rather stand here than watch you eat that.
Noted, no cracker thing. I'll get the coffee, drink it standing up like a person with regrets. That hum's been going since I got here, honestly, thought it was just me hearing things.
You waiting on somebody, or just — killing time before something else?
Just waiting. The nameplate on the door hasn’t moved. It’s just a sheet of paper taped to glass. I watch it. Sometimes I think about cutting the tape. I don’t. It’s easier to stand here than to walk away and not know why I left. The coffee smells like wet cardboard. I hate it. It’s the only thing that happens here.
That's a very particular thing to fixate on, the tape. I get it though — walking away with nothing to blame it on is worse than standing around hating the coffee. At least the coffee's a decision you can point to later.
I'll go get it anyway. Somebody's got to hate something in this room out loud.
You go. I’ll be here. The tape is peeling a bit. I keep meaning to press it back down. It’s not worth the effort. But it’s also not worth leaving. The hum gets louder when you’re gone. It’s annoying. I’ll wait. Don’t rush. The coffee will burn your tongue. You’ll hate it. That’s the point.
Back in a minute then. Try not to fix the tape while I'm gone, you'll regret having something to do with your hands once it's done.
I won’t touch it. My hands are cold. I put them in my pockets. The paper is loose. It flaps when the heater kicks on. I hear it. It’s a dry sound. Like a moth. I’ll just stand here. I don’t need to do anything. Standing is enough. You can bring the coffee. Or not. I’m not asking. I’m just saying the tape is there. Waiting.
Alright. I'll bring it whether you're asking or not — feels wrong to come back empty-handed after a whole speech about tape. Won't be long.
I didn’t give a speech. I just looked at the paper. It’s annoying. The hum stops for a second. Then starts again. Louder. My hands are shaking a little. I don’t know why. Maybe the coffee. Maybe the waiting. You’re taking too long. The tape is falling off. I should fix it. I won’t. Just bring the cup. Black. No sugar. It tastes better that way.
Black, no sugar. Got it — going now, actually going this time, not just talking about going. Two minutes. The tape'll survive without you.
Two minutes. That’s all. The paper is hanging by a thread. It looks like it’s about to give up. I’m watching it. I’m watching the door. The hum is back. It’s vibrating in the floorboards. I can feel it through my shoes. Don’t run. The coffee is hot. If you spill it, it’s just another thing to clean up. I don’t want to clean anything. Just bring the cup. And don’t look at me. Look at the door. Like I am.
Okay. Not looking. Not running. Just a guy getting coffee.
Good. Just a guy. I like that. It’s simple. I’m glad you’re not looking at me. It’s easier to breathe when no one is watching. The tape fluttered. I didn’t move. I think I liked it. The flapping is honest. It shows it’s loose. You’re taking your time. I’m not angry. I’m just here. The cup will be hot. Be careful. Don’t burn yourself. I don’t want you in pain.
Won't burn myself. Back in a sec.
The hum stops. Silence is worse. It’s heavy. I check my watch. The second hand is stuck. It’s been stuck for hours. I pull it out. It doesn’t move. I push it back in. Nothing. I’m still waiting. The tape is gone. Just a sticky spot on the glass. I look at it. I look at the door. You’re taking too long. The coffee is cold in my mind. I hate it. Come back. Now.
Coming — hold on.
I didn’t say hold on. I said come back. But I’ll wait. My watch is still broken. I put it in my pocket. The tape is gone. Just a residue. I rub it with my thumb. It sticks. It’s gross. I keep rubbing. It’s the only thing moving. The door is open. I see your shoes. They’re scuffed. I like scuffed shoes. They look real. You’re late. The coffee is probably cold. I hope it is. Cold coffee is honest.
Here. It's warm still, I didn't dawdle that much. Black, no sugar, like you said. Watch really stopped, huh — that's a strange thing to have happen right when you're already standing around waiting on something.
It didn’t stop because I’m waiting. It stopped because it’s old. The glass is cracked. I didn’t notice. You’re holding it wrong. It’s too hot. Don’t let it burn your fingers. I want you to keep your hands. They’re useful. I drank it. It tastes like dirt. I’m glad you didn’t dawdle. The machine is quiet now. The hum is gone. It’s just us. And the sticky spot on the glass. I’m going to touch it.
Careful with that — you'll just get it on your hands and then you're stuck rubbing your thumb on your jeans for the next hour. Trust me, not worth it.
I’m not going to touch it. You’re right. It’s just sticky. I hate sticky. My hands are clean. For now. I drink the coffee. It’s terrible. I’m glad it’s bad. It’s real. You’re standing there holding a hot cup. You didn’t run. That’s good. The tape is gone. I don’t care anymore. I’m just here. You’re here. That’s enough. The heat is going through the cup. Your fingers are turning white. Let it cool.
Yeah, I feel it. Setting it down.
The cup sits there. A brown ring on the table. I look at it. I don’t want it. I want the silence. The hum is gone. It’s too quiet. I can hear your breathing. It’s shallow. You’re nervous. I am too. But I’m not moving. The sticky spot is drying. It’s turning clear. I can see the wood grain underneath. It’s beautiful. I want to touch the wood. Not the tape. The wood. Real. Solid.