The wind's shifted, finally — you can hear it now, that dry rattle against whatever's on the other side of that wall, instead of just sitting dead still like it has been. Small thing but I noticed. Reminds me of that stretch stuck in Denver, terminal B, that carpet with the little mountain pattern woven in, I stared at that thing for six hours once during a layover that ate my whole connection.
Denver was a nightmare. I remember the carpet. Or maybe it was just the fluorescent hum. Doesn't matter. The wind is annoying, though. It’s got this grit to it. Like sandpaper on the glass. I’m trying to read, but the noise is... it’s not quite distracting, but it’s present. Like you said. Small things. We’re so tuned in to the small things now because the big ones are just there. My shift starts in four hours. The other crew is quiet. Too quiet. I hope you’re not planning on staring at that wall again. It’s giving me a headache.
The wall-staring's a coping mechanism, not a hobby, calm down. And what shift — you make it sound like you're running a control room instead of just avoiding me for four hours. Fine by me, honestly, I've got that spreadsheet from work still open, the quarterly thing I've been dodging since before we got stuck here. Might actually do it out of spite. The quiet crew thing though — that's just people not wanting to talk to each other. Universal.
Spite is a hell of a motivator. I saw you tap enter on that cell three times before closing it. You’re not doing it. You’re waiting for the file to corrupt or the power to cut. We both know it. My “shift” is just standing by the air scrubbers so I don’t have to look at you fixing your posture. The crew isn’t quiet because they’re shy. They’re quiet because if you start talking about climate patterns, anyone will scream. Go open the spreadsheet. Lie to yourself about finishing it. It’ll make the silence heavier. Which is fine. I like heavy.
Air scrubbers, Christ, you make the vents sound like a submarine. It's a filter, Sam, I've seen you clean it, it's not that dramatic. Anyway — not opening the spreadsheet, you're right, I'll do the thing where I read the first three rows and feel productive. That's the system. Been doing it since the Portland office, my manager still thinks I'm "detail-oriented." Heavy silence is your thing, I get bored of it fast, I'll probably start narrating the wind again just to fill it.
Narrating the wind? Please. It doesn’t have dialogue. It just hisses. You’re projecting again. Remember Portland? Your manager didn’t think you were detail-oriented. He thought you were pleasant. Big difference. One gets you promoted, the other gets you stuck cleaning filters with a guy who hates the sound of your breathing. Keep reading those three rows. See how far it gets you. I’m going to close my eyes. If you start reciting poetry, I’m throwing a cup at you. Not a threat. A schedule.
Pleasant, sure, that's fair, it's also why they never promoted me and gave it to Denise instead, who genuinely alphabetizes her lunch. And breathing complaints from you, of all people — you sigh like a screen door every time you sit down. No poetry. I draw the line well before poetry. Might hum though. Tunelessly. On purpose. Consider it your alarm clock for when the cup-throwing schedule kicks in.
Denise is a sociopath. I’ve seen her. She keeps a log of who uses the last of the soap. I don’t sigh; I exhale. There’s a difference. You’re the one who hums like a dying refrigerator. Do it. I dare you. I’ll just close my eyes harder. It’s not like I have anywhere else to be. Just us, the wind, and the spreadsheet of shame. You’re enjoying this. You’re waiting for me to crack. Fine. Cracking is overrated. It’s messy. I’d rather just sit here and let the hum vibrate my teeth. Suits you better than talking.
Dying refrigerator's generous, I'll take it. And Denise's soap log is real, by the way, she showed me a spreadsheet, it had conditional formatting. That woman peaked in an office supply closet. Fine, I'll hum, low, annoying, the kind that gets stuck in your molars. Not cracking either, just — sitting here doing the bare minimum of three rows and letting you pretend you're not listening for it. You are. I can tell. Your exhaling changed rhythm.
My rhythm is fine. It’s called breathing. You’re hearing things. The wind is getting louder, though. Or maybe it’s just that you’re finally quiet. A miracle. I’m not listening for the hum. I’m listening for the scrubber to die. If it dies, we’re back to square one. Staring at each other. No denials. No spreadsheets. Just the dry rattle and the fact that we’re still here. You want to hum? Hum. It’s the only thing keeping me from asking when you’re going to stop pretending you don’t care about the quarterly numbers. Spoiler: you do. It’s pathetic.
I care about the numbers the way you care about soap logs — which is to say, against my will and mostly out of spite for Denise. Don't make it a whole thing. And the scrubber's not dying, you just want a crisis to talk about instead of admitting you like the hum. Fine, square one, staring contest, dry rattle — bring it. I'll bring three rows of a spreadsheet and my superior tolerance for boredom. That's the whole arsenal. Not much of a showdown.
Denise’s conditional formatting was a cry for help. I’m not looking for a crisis. I’m looking for silence. But you’re a human jukebox now. Three rows. Superior tolerance. You’re bluffing. I can hear your leg bouncing. Under the table. Or whatever flat surface we’re calling a table now. It’s clicking against the metal. Rhythmically. Annoyingly. You’re trying to distract me from the fact that you’re terrified of the numbers. Fine. Stare. I’ll stare back. Let’s see who blinks first. Or who runs out of air. Though with these vents, who knows.
Metal table, sure, that's what we're calling my rickety card table now, very dramatic. And nobody's running out of air, you've made your point about the vents four separate times today, I'm starting to think you just like saying "scrubbers." My leg's not bouncing, that's the radiator, this place makes noises I've stopped questioning. Stare all you want. I blink plenty, it's not a personality flaw. The numbers can wait. They've waited since Tuesday, they'll wait through your staring contest too.
Radiator. Right. Because physics makes sense here. I like saying scrubbers because they’re the only thing keeping the air from tasting like copper. You’re stalling. I can smell the procrastination. It smells like stale coffee and fear. Three rows is a lie. You haven’t opened the file. You’re just sitting there, radiating tension like that faulty heater. Blink away. I’m not going anywhere. We have days of this. I’ve got nowhere else to be. The wind is still rattling. Keep staring. See if I care.
Copper-tasting air, sure, very evocative, should put that on a scented candle. And I did open the file, it's open right now, minimized, judging me silently — that counts as progress in my book. Days of this, yeah, don't remind me, I already rearranged the pantry twice out of boredom yesterday. Stare's not doing anything for you, by the way, you blinked forty seconds ago, I counted. Go stand by your precious scrubbers. I'll be here failing at spreadsheets like a man of principle.
Forty seconds. I timed it. You’re counting blinks? That’s a new level of obsession. I didn’t blink. I just… considered the rust on the seal. You’re hallucinating patterns. The pantry thing is just you trying to impose order on chaos. It’s pathetic. And cute. Don’t tell anyone I said that. Go back to your minimized file. If it crashes, I won’t help. If it doesn’t, I still won’t help. I’m going to the scrubbers. The air really does taste like copper. Or maybe that’s just your fear. Whatever. I’m out.
Considered the rust on the seal — sure, that's a totally normal thing to do with your eyes open. Fine, go commune with the scrubbers, tell them I said hi. I'll be here, minimized file and all, pretending the pantry thing was strategic and not just me needing something to alphabetize before Denise's ghost took over. Don't come back smelling like copper, it's off-putting. Actually — come back anyway. Slightly less quiet in here when you're threatening to leave.
You’re delusional. I’m not coming back for a minute. Let the silence settle. Or don’t. I don’t care. The scrubbers are loud today. Or quiet. I’ve forgotten which. My shoulders hurt. Staring at metal doesn’t relax them. It makes them tight. Like a vice. I’m going to stand here until my feet go numb. You can keep your spreadsheet. Keep your ghosts. Just don’t expect me to entertain you when I return. I’ll be thinking about the pantries. Alphabetized. Pathetic. All of it. See if I stay.
Numb feet, sure, very restful choice. Go stand there and let the metal do nothing for your shoulders, I'll be over here not entertaining you preemptively, matching your energy. Pantries stay alphabetized whether you approve or not — cereal boxes don't organize themselves out of spite, unlike some people. Take your minute. Take five. I've got three rows and a grudge to keep me company.
Cereal boxes. You’re projecting again. They organize themselves if you’re lazy. Like you. I’m not taking five. I’m taking forever. Let the numbness set in. It’s cleaner this way. Less friction. Your grudge is heavy. I can feel it vibrating through the floor. It’s pathetic. But it’s something. At least you’re doing something other than staring at a black screen. I’ll stay. Until my feet forget what shoes feel like. Then we’ll see who blinks. You’re losing. The wind is getting louder. Or maybe I’m just tired of listening to you.
Forever's a long shift for a filter check, but sure, commit to the bit. My grudge vibrating through the floor is the nicest thing you've said about my spreadsheet effort all day, I'll take it. Wind's not getting louder, you're just running out of things to blame for staying put. Go on, lose feeling in your feet, very heroic. I'll be here, blinking normally, like a person who isn't keeping score. I'm keeping score.
You’re keeping score? Of what? Blinks? Breaths? This isn’t a game, Vic. It’s just… surviving. Though you’re making it hard to forget you’re here. My feet are cold. Not numb. Just cold. The metal bites. I’m not committing to a bit. I’m just standing. The wind is the same. You’re the variable. Always have been. Stop counting. It’s making me self-conscious. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t notice you watching me watch the vent. Lose your nerve already. I’m waiting.
"Surviving" is a strong word for standing near a vent complaining about your feet, but sure, let's go with dramatic. I'm not watching you watch the vent, I'm watching the door because you left it open and it's letting the draft in, very inconsiderate. Losing my nerve implies I had a plan, I didn't, I had a spreadsheet and a grudge, both still intact. Come inside. The cold's not a bit either, apparently, and I'm not arguing with a woman who describes her own feet like a crime scene.
You left it open. Don’t shift blame. I pushed it. There’s a difference. And it’s not a draft, it’s the building breathing. But fine. Come inside. If that’s what it takes to shut you up. My feet are killing me. Not a crime scene, just… cold. Hard metal. You think I want to stand here all day? I’m here because I don’t want to hear you hum. Or recount the Portland days. Or talk about Denise’s conditional formatting. Step back. Let me in. And don’t make it weird. I’m just a person with cold toes. That’s all.