Coffee’s gone. Dry. Useless grounds in the tin. I stared at the vending machine in the lobby for an hour. Just blinking red lights and stale pretzels. You want one? They cost four dollars for a salt brick. I’m buying three. Not because I want them. Because the light is flickering and it’s driving me nuts. Hand me your wallet.
My wallet’s in my pocket. Take it. But if you think I’m eating one of those salt bricks, you’re delusional. I’ll drink the dusty sludge from the pot and be grateful for it. Just… stop staring at the lights. It’s making my eye twitch.
Fine. Keep your dignity. I’m taking the wallet anyway. Four dollars for the pretzels, plus two large coffees—assuming they haven’t boiled dry. I’ll be back in ten. Don’t touch the kettle. It’s cracked. You’ll burn yourself. And stop twitching. It’s worse than the lights. I’m going to count the tiles on the ceiling. One, two, three... there are exactly forty-four. Stop looking at me.
Forty-four? That’s impossible. I count forty-two. You’re losing it. The coffee’s fine, the kettle’s fine, you are not. Just get the damn pretzels and shut up. I don’t have the patience for your arithmetic. And don’t say I didn’t warn you about the kettle.
Forty-two. You’re blind. I painted the grid myself. Three years ago. You watched. You just forgot. Take the wallet. I’m going to the machine. I need to hear the coil spin. It’s the only sound in this place that isn’t your breathing. I’ll be back. Don’t drink the kettle water. I checked the seal. It’s leaking. Smells like sulfur. Or rust. Hard to tell.
I’m not drinking it. I’m not drinking anything from this dump. Go count your tiles. Count them until you forget why we’re here. I’m sitting right here. Watching you. Waiting for you to come back with those salt bricks.
Fine. Watch. I’ll count the corners too. Twelve. And the cracks. Three main ones. I’m walking out. The hallway light is out. Pitch black. I like it. No red lights blinking. Just shadows. I’ll be back with the pretzels. And coffee. If the machine works. If I can find the button. You’re getting louder, Pia. Shut up. Or I’m leaving the wallet here.
Shut up yourself. I haven’t said a word. My voice is in my head, loud enough to crack the tiles. Go on. Run into the dark. See if the coil spins in the black. I’ll be here, staring at the leak. Smells like rust. Or your fear. Don’t drop the wallet. I need it for the pretzels.
I didn’t drop it. My hand is sweating through the leather. The hallway is colder than the room. I can feel the walls breathing. Not really. Just the pipes. They’re groaning. I’m pressing the button. Clunk. The coil turned. Pretzel falls. I didn’t catch it. It hit the floor. Dust. Now I have four dollars less and zero pretzels. I’m coming back. Don’t move the kettle. If it explodes, I’m not cleaning up the slag.
Let it break. I’m tired of cleaning up after you. Come back with your empty hands and your sweaty wallet. Maybe the machine will spit out a coffee next time, or maybe it’ll just laugh at us. I’m not moving. I’m watching the crack in the kettle widen. It’s singing now. High and thin. Like a wire about to snap.
It’s not singing. It’s boiling. You’re imagining sounds. I’m walking back. The coin returned. I didn’t grab it. My fingers are numb. I’m holding the wallet like a brick. I’m dropping it on the table. Clatter. Loud. You’re welcome. The kettle will hold. Or it won’t. If it blows, it blows. I’m going to sit in the corner. Stare at the forty-two tiles. Or forty-four. I can’t tell anymore. Shut up about the wire. It’s metal. Not music.
Take the wallet. I don’t want it. It’s dirty. Your fingers were sweating all over it. I’m not going to touch your mess. Sit in the corner. Count until your eyes bleed. I’m staring at the kettle. It’s not singing. It’s whistling. And it’s getting louder. You said it was broken. Why is it whistling?
It’s not whistling. It’s screaming. The valve’s jammed. I told you. You’re hallucinating. Or I am. The wallet is on the table. Take it. Or leave it. I’m sitting. My back hurts. The corner is sharp. I can feel it through my shirt. Whistle louder. Break the kettle. Flood the floor. I don’t care. Just stop looking at me. Look at the tiles. Forty-two. I counted again. Now there are forty-three. A new one. Growing. Like a tumor.
It’s not a tumor, Dev. It’s a hairline fracture. The heat’s warping the glaze. Sit still before you crack the floor, too. I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at the kettle. It’s shaking. Violently. Like it’s trying to escape. Move. Get the towels. Or don’t. Let it flood. I’m done cleaning.
Towels are in the bathroom. Door’s stuck. I tried yesterday. The kettle’s shaking harder. You’re right. It is escaping. I’m not getting up. Let it flood. Sink the floor. Sink the wallet. I’m sitting in the dark corner now. The tiles are shifting. Forty-three is moving. It’s crawling toward you. Don’t look at it. Look at the kettle. Wait for the bang. I’m not moving. You’re the one watching. Keep watching.
Stop it. The tiles aren’t moving. You’re seduced by the exhaustion. Look at the kettle. Look at me. Not the floor. The floor is just linoleum. You’re making a scene because you’re bored. Because I’m here. Because we’re stuck. Bang if you want. I’m not getting up to save the rug. Let it burn.
I’m not making a scene. I’m counting. You want me to look at you? Fine. Your left eye is twitching. Faster now. The kettle’s loud. It’s vibrating the table. I can feel it in my teeth. You said you’re done cleaning. Good. I’m done with this room. I’m going to the hallway. The dark is cleaner. No tiles. No kettle. Just the red light from the vending machine. Blinking. Mocking. I’m walking out. Don’t follow me. Or do. I don’t care.
Go. Take your numb fingers and your dark hallway. I’m not following. I’m staying right here. Watching the kettle. It’s not going to explode. It’s just metal. You’re the one cracking. Four dollars for nothing. Pretzels on the floor. And you. Walking away. Coward.
Coward? Maybe. I’m out. The hallway is quiet. No whistling. No tiles. Just the hum of the fridge down the hall. It’s cold. I’m sitting on the stairs. Counting steps. Twelve. Twelve more. I have the wallet. It’s warm now. Your sweat dried. Smells like salt. I’ll keep it. You didn’t take it. You’re too proud. Or too scared. The kettle probably won’t break. Metal doesn’t explode. It leaks. Slowly. Annoyingly. Like you.
Let it leak. Let it rot the floorboards. I don’t care about your pride. I care that you’re sitting in the dark counting steps like a goddamn monk. Keep the wallet. It’s tainted. I’m going to the window. Maybe the vending machine light will stop blinking if I look away. Maybe it’ll die.
The light won’t die. It’s hardwired. I checked the junction box. You’re lying. You’re shivering. I can hear your teeth chattering from the stairs. Twelve steps down. Twelve more. The air is stale. Smells like old coffee and fear. Keep staring at the window. It’s just glass. No view. Just the brick wall opposite. You know that. You’re just hoping for a miracle. Or a breakdown. Pick one. I’m going back upstairs. The corner is warmer than the stairs.
I’m not shivering. I’m angry. There’s a difference. Go back to your corner. Count your tiles until they form a face. I’ll watch the brick wall. It’s steady. Unlike you. Don’t come back with that wallet. Burn it. Or keep it. I’m done.
Anger. Right. You’re shaking the window frame. The brick isn’t moving. It’s just gray mortar and brick. I’m coming back. The stairs creaked. Loud. My knees hurt. I dropped the wallet near the kettle. Let it lie there. On the linoleum. Not the tiles. I sat down. Hard. The corner is cold. I’m staring at the kettle. It’s stopped whistling. Now it’s hissing. Quietly. Like a snake. You’re watching the brick. I’m watching the snake. Don’t look away.
It’s not a snake. It’s steam escaping a blown gasket. Classic pressure failure. You’re anthropomorphizing a household appliance again. Get up. Wipe the wallet. It’s damp. I don’t want it touching the floor. And stop hissing. It’s not helping. Just come here and sit down before you slip on the inevitable puddle.
Blown gasket? You sound like a manual. I’m not getting up. The wallet is on the floor. Let it soak. I’m wiping my hand on my jeans. Stain’s already there. From yesterday’s grease. Or dirt. Can’t tell. You want me to sit? Fine. I’m moving. One step. Two. The floor’s wet. Cold. I’m sitting. Next to you. Not touching. Just close enough to hear you breathe. The kettle hisses louder. Good. Let it hiss.
Your hand was grease. I smelled it when you sat. We’re sopping now. The kettle’s not winning. It’s just noise. Stop breathing so loud. You’re making it worse. Just sit. Don’t touch me. I’m watching the brick. It’s not going anywhere. Unlike us.
Grease? That’s rust. From the pipes. You’re sensitive. I’m sitting. Knees knocked together. The kettle’s screaming now. A real shriek. I’m not touching you. Too close anyway. Your shoulder is hard. Like the brick. I’m closing my eyes. Counting the cracks in the ceiling. Forty-four. Wait. Forty-five. There’s a new one. Right above the kettle. It’s growing. I can hear it splitting. Snap.
Snap your head off. I don’t care. The ceiling’s dry. You’re just waiting for the pipe to burst so you can finally blame me. Keep your knees together. You’re damp. The kettle’s fine. It’s just a kettle. Stop listening to ghosts. Open your eyes. Look at the brick. It’s real. You’re not.
I’m real. I’m sitting here. Knees pressed. Wet fabric sticking to my thigh. The brick is real. Gray. Cold. I’m looking at it. You’re right. I’m not a ghost. I’m just tired. The kettle stops. Silence. Then a drip. Drip. Drip. I’m opening my eyes. The ceiling is dry. Forty-four tiles. No new crack. Just the brick. You’re watching it too. We’re both staring. Waiting for the next sound. Or the end of it.
Finally. You see it too. The silence is worse. It’s heavy. Pressing down. I’m not waiting for the end. I’m waiting for you to move. Your knee is on my leg. Get off. It’s wet. And it’s cold. I hate cold.