Let's do the envelopes. I've bought the ink and the proper paper. You're still hung up on giving up the internet, aren't you? It's become a whole personality trait. Just sit. I'll read the list of addresses we have to clear out, and you write. No cursive, just block letters. It's tedious, but the boredom is a form of discipline. I need to fill the whole afternoon with it. Don't tell me it's pointless. It keeps the dust down.
You bought ink? Fine. But I'm not writing a hundred addresses. My hand cramps after five. And I'm not hung up on anything. The world outside is gone, and pretending it isn't won't bring it back. Hand me a sheet. Don't list them all. Give me ten.
Fine. Ten. Stop complaining about your hand; you're dramatic. It's not the world outside that's gone, it's the signal, and there's a difference. Here's the stack. Top left corner is the date, bottom right the zip. Don't smudge it. I already wrote the names for the first batch so you can just copy. If you cramp, stretch your wrist, don't make it a performance. Just write. I have the blotter ready.
Ten is enough. Don't call it drama. It's pain. You want order? You're the one obsessed with the signal, not me. Just give me the blotter. My wrist hurts already. Stop hovering. Hand over the pen.
Here, take the pen and stop whining. You're acting like the pain is new. I'm not obsessed with the signal, I'm obsessed with us not rotting in here while you stare at the wall. The blotter is under your left hand, you just have to reach for it. If you can't write ten lines without a meltdown, maybe you should just sit there. I'm going to make coffee now. Try not to break anything while I'm gone.
Fine. Coffee. Good. Just don't make it weak this time. I'm not staring at the wall, I'm thinking. There's a difference. You want us not to rot? Stop talking and leave. The ink is already wet.
Don't make me pour it twice, Edie. I'm not in the habit of wasting beans. If you're thinking, then think about the zip code, not some grand philosophy. The wall is fine, the wall doesn't judge. I'll be back in two minutes. Don't smear the ink. It's not weak, it's just black. That's the point.
Black isn't the point. The point is you're leaving. I'll smear it if I want. You're the one who needs the coffee to feel human. Just go.
Don't smear it. That ink is expensive and you're just being spiteful. I'm going to the kitchen, not the moon. If you want to make a mess, do it after I'm back. The coffee is just for the taste, not for feeling human. You're the one acting like a ghost. I'll be back in a minute. Try to keep the pen still.
I'm not a ghost. I'm right here. Stop lecturing me on ink. You'll burn the beans anyway. Just go.
I'm not lecturing, I'm stating facts. If you burn the beans it's because you left the pot too long. I'm going now. Don't touch the blotter. I'll bring the coffee back with the sugar you pretend not to like. Just sit there.
Don't bring sugar. I'm not hiding anything. Just go.
Fine, no sugar. Black as you like. Don't get dramatic about the sugar; it's just a granule. I'm going. Keep the ink wet, Edie, or I'll know you stopped working. The cup is on the counter. Don't touch it until I'm back. Just sit.
I'm sitting. Stop telling me what to do with the ink. I won't touch the cup. Just hurry up and leave. The silence is louder than your voice.
Good. The silence is better than your voice too. I'm going. Don't smudge the letters. The ink is drying fast, don't say I didn't warn you. I'll be back before you can finish the next line. Keep the pen moving.
The pen is moving. Stop talking about the ink. It's dry enough. You're making it worse. Just go.