Right, so we're out of dry matches. Down to the last sleeve of crackers too, which is criminal. I keep thinking about the vending machine outside my office at 3am — the one that eats your coins and gives you nothing, every single time, and you still put another coin in because what else is there. That's basically where we are now. Except colder.
Yeah, well, the vending machine at least works if you hit it hard enough. We're just sitting here waiting for the damp to rot through our boots. I tried to start a fire with that last dry twig and some of my own coat, but it just smoked like a damn chimney. Reminds me of that boss who kept asking for "synergy" while the whole building burned down. You ever notice how the worst storms always happen when you're least prepared? Or is it just me?
Nah, it's not just you, it's a law of physics nobody's written down yet. Storms sniff out the exact moment you've got one lighter and a wet coat and go, perfect, now.
Synergy boss — I had one of those, used to say "let's circle back" in meetings about a printer that hadn't worked in months. I want to hit that twig too, honestly, out of solidarity. Save the coat. You'll want it when this smoke clears, assuming it ever does.
Don't get noble on me now. That coat is barely holding together as it is. I'm not circling back to anything, not when the fire's a joke and the cracker sleeve is mocking us. You hit the twig, you hit the twig, but the smoke stays. Remember that shift last month when the power went out? We just stood there in the dark, too tired to move, waiting for someone to care. It's the same thing. Just colder, wetter, and no one's coming to fix the vending machine.
Nobody's ever coming to fix the vending machine, Rafe, that's the whole point of it. Power outage — yeah, I remember standing there like an idiot, phone light on, listening to Denise complain about her yogurt going warm. Least the dark was quiet. This is just wet and loud and smells like a chimney fire that gave up halfway through. Give me the crackers. If we're mocked, we should at least eat while it happens.
Denise with her warm yogurt. Classic. You want the crackers? Fine, but you're eating them dry. No water to wash 'em down. Just chew and hope it sticks. The smoke is getting in my eyes, makes it hard to see you grinning about solidarity. You think this is a movie scene? It's just us, wet through, waiting for the tide to come in or the roof to fall in. I didn't sign up for the "adventure" part, just the paycheck. Hand over the sleeve before I change my mind.
Here — take it, half's already gone anyway, didn't ask you first. Wasn't grinning about solidarity, was grinning 'cause you looked like a drowned raccoon trying to save that coat. Nobody signs up for the adventure part, that's the thing they never put on the job listing. Just the paycheck, then somehow you're here, chewing dry crackers next to a smoke machine, listening to a roof think about it.
Drowned raccoon? I'll remember that when you're the one shivering in the draft. You got half gone already? Typical. I knew I shouldn't have looked away. That smoke is making my head spin. Maybe we should just eat the rest now and pretend it's a feast. At least the raccoon joke was better than Denise's yogurt talk. Don't think we're done waiting, though. Roof or no roof, the damp is winning. Hand over the sleeve, I'm taking the crumbs too.
Take the crumbs, take the whole tragic sleeve, call it a feast, I don't care anymore. Damp's been winning since hour one, we just didn't want to admit it out loud. Draft's already found me, don't worry, it's got a personal vendetta. If this is the feast, somebody should say grace. I nominate you, since you're the one hoarding crumbs like they're gonna save us.
Grace? We're eating cardboard and waiting for the roof to say hello. No thanks. I'm not blessing a room that smells like wet dog. You can say it, I'm saving my breath for shivering. The draft's got you now, huh? Good. Maybe you'll finally stop with the jokes. Just eat the damn crumbs and shut up about the feast. We're not heroes, Omar, we're just the people left when the vending machine eats everything. Pass me that last sleeve piece before the wind takes it.
Fine, no grace, we'll starve unblessed like heathens. Here's your piece, don't act wounded about it. Wasn't asking to be a hero, Rafe, just trying not to lose my mind listening to that roof creak like it's deciding something. Jokes are the only dry thing left in here — everything else is soaked through, including my patience. Eat your crumbs. I'll shut up when the wind does.
Whatever. Just eat it before the wind blows the crumbs right out of my hand. That roof is definitely deciding when to collapse, probably waiting for us to finish chewing. Don't think I haven't noticed you getting quiet; you're just saving the noise for when the walls give. I'm not hungry anymore, just cold. The damp's in my teeth. You want to talk about the roof deciding? Fine. It decides to drop when it wants, not when we're done talking. Pass me that blanket if you aren't using it.
Not using it, take it — half of it, at least, since I'm not freezing to death just to make a point. Damp in your teeth, that's a new low, even for this place. Roof'll drop whenever it wants, you're right, doesn't care about our schedule. I've gone quiet 'cause there's nothing left to joke about that isn't already soaked. Budge over, blanket's not big enough for your whole sulk.
Half a blanket is better than a full one if it keeps the wind off my back. Don't think I'm sulking; I'm conserving heat. If you're not going to joke, then just sit still. The roof creaking is getting louder, like it's counting. I don't trust that thing. It waited for the dryer to break, then the lights, now it's going for the structure. You're right, the damp is in my teeth, feels like I'm chewing on wet wool. Stop bugging me about the "whole sulk" and just huddle up.
Not bugging you, just narrating, someone has to since the roof won't shut up. Fine — huddling, no more talk of counting or collapsing, deal. You're warmer than the vending machine ever was, I'll give you that much. Wet wool teeth and all. Stay still, stop twitching, you're letting the draft in on your side.
Twitching? I'm not twitching, I'm vibrating from cold. You call it narration, I call it background noise for the collapse. Vending machine was warmer? That's a low bar. It had electric coils. We've got nothing but wet wool and each other's bad vibes. Keep the blanket tight, or I'm kicking you out of the circle. Just... stop moving so much. The draft knows where to get in. It's not going to let up just because we're quiet.
Bad vibes, sure, better than no vibes, which is what the roof's got. Fine, staying still, not kicking anyone anywhere, kick me and you lose the blanket war anyway. Draft's persistent, I'll give it that — more consistent than my landlord, who hasn't fixed my window in months, and that one's not even leaking rain, just noise. At least here the noise has a reason.
Landlord? You're still thinking about your landlord? We're here. The roof has a reason because it wants to kill us. Your window just wants to annoy you. Big difference. Stop comparing us to your rental nightmare. The draft doesn't care about your lease. It just cares about the gap under the door. Keep the blanket tight. I'm not kicking you, but if you start complaining about rent again, I'm taking the whole thing.
Alright, alright, rent's off the table, God forbid I mention anything from the outside world. Blanket's staying put, both of us in it, gap under the door can keep whistling for all I care. At least the landlord never threatened structural collapse — mostly just ignored my calls. That's a comfort now, oddly. Small mercies. Quiet down, you're vibrating again.
Small mercies? Don't push it. The landlord ignoring calls is better than the roof deciding to drop while we're eating dry crumbs, I'll give you that. But stop calling me a vibrator, it's cold, not a glitch. I'm trying to conserve energy, not tune into a radio station. Just... stay still. The wind is picking up outside. Or maybe it's just the blood rushing to my head. Doesn't matter. Keep quiet. If we stop talking, maybe the roof will think we're already gone.
Didn't call you a vibrator, said vibrating, there's a difference, calm down. Fine, quiet — though I doubt the roof's fooled by silence, it's not that clever, it's just wood and bad luck. Wind's picking up, you're right, or it's your blood, could be both. Either way. Not saying another word about landlords, roofs, or vending machines. Just breathing. That's the whole plan now.
Good. Just breathing. No more wood, no more luck. If the roof wants to come down, let it come down while we're busy doing nothing. My teeth are still chattering, so don't think I'm not vibrating. Just... breathe slower. You're talking too much with just your chest. I can hear you. I can hear the blanket rustling. Stop it. Just breathe.
Fine — breathing quieter, chest and all. Rustling's the blanket, not me, wool doesn't exactly cooperate. Stopping now. Just this.
Finally. Less noise, less chance the roof wakes up. Wool never cooperates, it just hangs there like a dead weight. Your breathing is the only thing keeping me from screaming. Don't you dare stop now, even if the wind dies down. If you stop, the silence gets too loud. Just keep it going. In, out. That's it. Don't think about the cracks in the wood. Don't think about anything.