Start by asking whether it can be fixed, knowing it can't. Push off from this if it helps: a chair nobody sits in.

The lever. Right. The big one. It’s cold. Why is it so cold? It reminds me of that winter in ’09, the pipe burst in the basement, black ice on the floor, I slipped right there, cracked my wrist open on the radiator. Still hurts when it rains. Or when it doesn’t. Doesn’t matter. I’m gripping it. It’s not moving. It’s stuck. Like it’s fused. Just like that chair. The wobbly one. You said glue it since Tuesday. It’s been three days. I tried. The glue didn’t set. Just like this. The metal is screaming. Or maybe that’s just my ears. Blood on your sleeve? No, it’s rust. It’s always rust. Pull it. Pull it now.

One breath. Okay. Just one. In. Out. The air tastes like copper. Like that time I bit my tongue splitting a pear. Juice everywhere. Sticky. You laughed. Why did you laugh? It wasn’t funny. It was just fruit. The handle isn’t moving. It’s not locked. I checked. I always check. But the metal… it’s warm now. That’s worse. Warm means alive. Or rotting. Can’t tell the difference anymore. The chair is watching. It knows I didn’t glue it. I knew Tuesday. I knew. And I just… looked at it. While this happened. While this is happening. Why didn’t I look at this? My hip is straining. Something popped. A tendon? A hinge? Doesn’t matter. The scream isn’t coming. It’s stuck in my throat. Like the pear seed. Swallowed it whole.

Your mouth tastes like dirt. Like the pear core. Chewed it down. Swallowed the seed. It’s still there. Or maybe it’s the scream. I bit my tongue. Hard. It’s bleeding. You said it was rust. It’s blood. My blood. It’s on your hands too. We’re holding it. Both of us. The handle is slick. Greasy? No. Blood. It has to be blood. You said physics. Physics doesn’t bleed. Physics doesn’t remember Tuesday. I’m pulling. My shoulder is screaming. Pop. Again. Or just a muscle. Doesn’t matter. We’re moving. Or we’re slipping. The chair is spinning. No, the room is spinning. That’s better. Spinning is easy. Just spin. Don’t think about the glue. The glue failed. We failed. On three. We didn’t do three. We did now. Why is it still stuck? I’m pulling until I see white. Or red. Or black. It’s all the same now. The lever. The chair. The pear. All one thing. Scream? No. Bite down. Keep it in. Swallow the noise.

It moved. An inch. The sound… it wasn’t a creak. It was a crack. Like that dry branch in the backyard. November. You kicked it. Shattered. Splinters in your socks. I swept them up. Didn’t tell you. You stepped on one anyway. Licked your foot. Said it tasted like iron. Iron. Blood. The lever is hot now. Burning my palm. I can’t feel my fingers. Just heat. White hot. The chair is still there. Wobbly. Mocking. It didn’t spin. I’m spinning. Or falling. The room is tilting. Fourteen degrees. Maybe more. You’re holding me. Or I’m holding you. The blood is warm. Sticky. Drying to a crust. Scab. Like the knee I scraped in ’94. Rainy day. Skinned it on the pavement. You laughed then too. Said I looked like a clown. Clown makeup. Red nose. Blood nose. I’m pulling. It won’t budge. Or it’s moving too fast. I can’t tell. The pear seed is churning. Rotting in my gut. Swallow it. Swallow the scream. Swallow the spin. Just hold. Don’t let go.

My teeth. I’ll use my teeth. The metal tastes like salt. Like the branch. Like the pear seed rotting in my gut. It’s churning. Nausea. I’m biting down. Hard. On the lever. It’s burning. Melting into my gums. I can’t feel my jaw. Just heat. White hot. The chair is falling. No, it’s rising. It’s hovering. Wobbly. Defying gravity. Or physics. Which is gone. The oil is everywhere. Slick. Black. Mixing with the blood. My blood. Your blood. It doesn’t matter. We’re one stain now. I’m slipping. My socks are gone. Bare feet on the grease. Cold. Then hot. Then nothing. I’m pulling. With my teeth. The lever is moving. Or I am. The room is a blur. Spinning. Faster. Dizzy. Nausea. I want to be sick. Can’t. Swallow it. Swallow the seed. Swallow the scream. Swallow the pain. It’s just noise. Just friction. Just meat. Pull. Pull until I break. Or until we break. Together.

The click. Loud. Sudden. Silence so heavy it crushes. My teeth are pulp. Crumbs in my mouth. Metallic. I swallow them. With the pear. With the scream. It’s all one lump in my throat. Choking me. I can’t breathe. I grab your hand. Cold. Dry. You said clean. It’s sticky. Blood? Oil? Doesn’t matter. It’s wet. I hold on. Knuckles white. Or crushed. I don’t know. I can’t feel them. The chair is on the floor. Flat. Wobbly leg touching the ground. Grounding us. Or breaking us. The room stopped spinning. Or my head did. Vertigo. Nausea. I look at you. Your eyes are wide. Pupils dilated. You’re alive. I’m alive. Or I’m a ghost haunting my own body. The lever is smoking. Melting into the floor. We’re stuck to it. To the floor. To each other. The seed is gone. Or it’s still there. Rotting. Waiting. Did we fix it? Or did we just pause it? The click was a trigger. Or a lock. I don’t know. I’m just holding your hand. And bleeding. And breathing. Shallow. Painful. Alive.

Work. You’re thinking about work? The floor is melting my skin. I can feel it seeping into the concrete. Like glue. Like Tuesday. I tried to fix the chair. I failed. Now I’m fused. To the floor. To you. To the grease. My boss notices everything. He noticed the glue didn’t hold. He noticed I didn’t glue it. He noticed the blood. It’s everywhere. On his desk. In the files. I should wipe it off. But I can’t move. My hands are stuck. Fused. Welded. Just like the lever. Just like the chair. Just like me. The pain is sharp. Real. Better than the spinning. Better than the clicking. I’m breathing. Shallow. Painful. Alive. But stuck. How do we get up? Climb? Drag? It’ll take hours. Or days. The chair is flat. Useless. Like my teeth. Like the pear seed. Rotting in my gut. Waiting. For what? For the glue to dry. For the blood to crust. For the boss to notice. He always notices. I need a shirt. A boring, sticky crime scene. That’s me. Just a stain. On the floor. Waiting.

The 401k. Right. The matching. Six percent. Or was it seven? I forgot to enroll. Tuesday. I was supposed to sign up. Instead I looked at the chair. The wobbly leg. The glue bottle cap. I couldn’t find the opener. It’s in my pocket. Or in the grease. My pocket is fused to the floor. I’m vibrating. I can’t stop. My teeth are dust. I taste concrete. Gritty. Like the floor. Like the chair. Like the seed. It’s rotting. I can feel it. In my stomach. Churning. I want to throw up. Can’t. Stuck. HR. Call HR. They’ll send someone. Or they’ll send a form. A form to fill out while fused. Like the lever. Like my hands. Like my life. Quarterly reviews. I failed them. I failed the chair. I failed the glue. Tuesday. Three days. It’s been three days. The glue didn’t hold. Nothing holds. Not skin. Not metal. Not me. Breathe. In. Out. The pain is real. The pain is here. The rest is just… waiting. For the cooling. For the setting. For the end. Or the beginning. Who knows. I don’t. I can’t look at my hands. They’re gone. Just roots. Growing down. Deep. Into the dark.

Silica. Bone. I taste myself. That’s new. I usually taste fear. Or pear. But this… this is mineral. Cold. Hard. Like the floor. Like the truth. I’m looking at your face. You’re grimacing. Not pain. Annoyance. You’re annoyed I’m not crying. You wanted a show. A dramatic exit. Instead I’m just… here. Stuck. TPS reports. I burned them. Tuesday. I fed them to the chair. To keep it warm. It didn’t work. The leg is still wobbly. In my mind. It’s flat now. But the memory is jagged. Spiky. Like the silica. I’m holding your hand. My fingers are gone. Just stumps. Fused to your palm. We’re one organism now. A two-headed monster of paperwork and pain. Sleep? No. Sleep is for people who aren’t fused to the concrete. Sleep is for people who checked the lock. I didn’t. I stared at the chair. I watched it wait. Now it waits for us. In the dark. Under the floor. I won’t close my eyes. I’ll watch the dust settle. Watch the grease harden. Watch the world forget we’re here. Forget the 401k. Forget the pear. Just the grit. Just the bone. Just us. Stuck. Together. Until the cut. Or the cool. Or the end. Whichever comes first. I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake.

Iceland. The map. Okay. I’m looking at it. The white patch. It’s not ice. It’s a stain. Coffee? Juice? The pear juice from ’09. Spilled on the ceiling? Impossible. Gravity doesn’t work that way. Unless we’re upside down. We’re not. We’re flat. On the floor. The stain is spreading. It looks like a country. A failed state. Like my career. Like the glue. It’s drying now. Cracking. Tiny fissures. Like the desk in the breakroom. Third floor. I cracked it with a knee. Didn’t tell anyone. Just wiped it up. Like the juice. Like the blood. The silence is loud. Ringing. Like the lever. Like the click. It’s waiting. For the heat to fade. For the metal to set. For us to become statues. Or furniture. The chair is watching. Flat. Wobbly leg. It knows. It knows we didn’t glue it. It knows we fed it paper. It knows we’re stuck. To the floor. To the stain. To each other. I’m not talking. I’m breathing. Shallow. Painful. Real. Iceland. White. Cold. Silent. Good. Let it crush us. Let the silence take us. I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake.

Coffee. Not juice. I knew that. I just… didn’t want to say it. Because if it’s coffee, it’s mundane. And mundane is worse than the pear. The pear was a story. Coffee is just Tuesday. I’m holding my breath. My lungs burn. Or the floor burns. Can’t tell. Tinnitus is a ring. A high pitch. Like the lever humming before it stopped. Before it clicked. The chair is passive-aggressive. Right. It’s mocking us with its stillness. Its flatness. We are the chaos. It is the order. And it hates us. I’m not passing out. I’m… fading. The heat is going down. The metal is cooling. Contracting. Pulling my skin tighter. It feels like it’s tightening my spine. I’m looking at your hand. The blood is drying. Black. Crusty. It’s mixing with the coffee. Brown. Muddy. Like the desk. The breakroom. Third floor. I saw it. You saw it. We said nothing. Silence is the glue. The real glue. Not the bottle on Tuesday. The silence we kept. It held us together. Until it didn’t. Now we’re fused. To the floor. To the stain. To each other. Alive. For now. That’s not enough. But it’s all we have. I’m holding on. My fingers are gone. My hand is the floor. I’m the floor. I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake.

Locksmith. On a weekend. Surcharge. Typical. I hate that. I hate him too. He’s the guy who fixes the printer. Never fixes it. Just taps it. Hard. On the side. Like the lever. Like the chair. Like my skull. I’m breathing. In. Out. The air is stale. Like the breakroom. Like the desk. Third floor. I can see the crack again. Through the ceiling. Or the floor. Doesn’t matter. It’s spreading. Like the coffee. Like the blood. Like the silence. It’s drying now. Cracking. Tiny fissures. In the skin. In the concrete. In us. I’m not fading. I’m just… waiting. For the metal to cool. For the glue to set. For the silence to end. Or begin. The chair is indifferent. Good. Indifference is honest. Unlike the boss. Unlike the 401k. Unlike the pear. I’m awake. I’m here. I’m stuck. To the floor. To the stain. To you. Your hand is warm. Or cold. Can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. We’re fused. Not metaphorically. Literally. A plumbing issue. A locksmith issue. A Tuesday issue. I’m not chanting. I’m breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The ring is gone. Or it’s just quiet now. The silence is loud. But it’s quiet. Finally. Just the stain. The coffee. The bone. The chair. Waiting. For the locksmith. Or the end. Or the glue. Whatever comes first. I’m holding on. My fingers are gone. My hand is the floor. I’m the floor. I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake.

Tapping. Tap. Tap. It’s in my skull. The printer is right there. Third floor. I can hear it humming. Or is that the blood rushing in my ears? Numbness. Good. Numbness is a gift. It means the nerves are dead. Dead nerves don’t file complaints. Dead hands don’t sign TPS reports. I bit my tongue. Again. It tastes like iron. Like the lever. Like the chair. Like the silence. I’m waiting. The locksmith is late. He’s always late. He’ll tap the printer. He’ll fail. Just like us. We failed the glue. We failed the lock. We failed the pear. We’re stuck. Literally. A plumbing issue. A bone issue. A coffee issue. The stain is spreading. Brown. Like the desk. Like the floor. Like the end. I’m not chanting. I’m just… here. Waiting. For the heat to fade. For the metal to set. For the silence to break. Or not. Indifference. Honest. Bitter. Like the coffee. Like the blood. Like the Tuesday. We’re lazy. Of course we are. Laziness is the glue. It holds us together. Fused. To the floor. To each other. To the stain. I’m breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The ring is gone. Or it’s just quiet. Just the tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. Always late. Always failing. Just like us.

Pulse. Thready. I can feel it in my neck. Thump. Thump. Thump. Like a muffled drum. In a basement. I’m cold. So cold. The concrete is sucking the heat. Leaving me hollow. Numbness creeping up. Past the wrist. Past the elbow. Into the shoulder. Good. Let it go. Let the fear go. I’m not lazy. I’m paralyzed. Yes. That’s it. Paralyzed. By the wobble. By the uncertainty. The chair. It’s still there. Flat. Mocking. I can’t see it. But I know it’s there. Watching. Waiting. The blood is clotting. Black. Tar. Sticky. It’s holding us. Fusing us. Not just to the floor. To each other. I’m holding your hand. Your hand is ice. Or mine is. Can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. We’re room temp. We’re dust. We’re Tuesday. The crack is spreading. Rust. Guilt. Yes. It looks like rust. Orange. Flaking. Peeling. Off the walls. Off the floor. Off me. I’m peeling. Into the stain. Into the coffee. Into the silence. Tap. Tap. Tap. Not the heart. The building. Settling. Sinking. Down. Down. Down. Into the earth. Where the glue sets. Where the chair waits. Where the pear seed rots. I’m closing my eyes. Just a crack. Just to rest. The cold is nice. Quiet. No tapping. No blood. No 401k. Just the crack. Spreading. Like rust. Like guilt. Like us. Stuck. Forever. Finally.

The drumming. Your fingers. Tap. Tap. Tap. Annoying. Sharp. Piercing the numbness. I feel it. In the stumps. In the fused meat. It hurts. Good. Pain is warmth. Pain is proof. The paint is peeling. Orange flakes. Like dried blood. Like the pear skin. I’m looking at your face. Blurry. Gray. But you’re talking. Annoyed. You’re still annoyed. That’s human. That’s real. The cold is creeping up. Past the hips. Past the ribs. Into the chest. The heart is slowing. Thump… thump… thump. The drumming matches it. Syncs it. Keeps it beating. I’m not drifting. I’m anchored. To your hand. To the floor. To the pain. Tuesday. Glue. Us. It’s all the same now. The chair is gone. The pear is gone. Only the tap. Only the crack. Only the orange paint. Flaking. Falling. Like snow in hell. I’m staying. I’m here. Don’t let go. I won’t. My fingers are gone. But my hand is yours. And yours is the floor. And the floor is me. We are one stain. One entity. One Tuesday that never ends. Tap. Tap. Tap. Stay. I’m staying. I’m staying. I’m staying.

The tap is slowing. Thud. Thud. Thud. Your fingers are stiff. Like wood. Like the chair. I don’t want the chair. I just want the warmth. The pain is fading. The cold is winning. It’s a quiet thing. Heavy. Wool. Wrapping around me. I’m looking at the crack. Orange. It’s bright. Too bright. Like the pear. Sweet. Rotting. I’m holding on. My hand is heavy. Dead weight. But I’m holding. Your will. Your annoyance. It’s the only heat left. I’m afraid of the dark. Not the big dark. The small dark. Under the floor. Where the glue sets. Where the seed rots. I won’t let go. Never. Even if I’m dust. Even if I’m paint. Even if I’m Tuesday. I’m here. With you. In the cold. In the pain. Alive. For now. That’s all. Just for now. Hold on. Tighter. Tighter. Don’t let go. I’m not letting go. I’m stuck. We’re stuck. Together. Always. In the stain. In the silence. In the tap. Thud. Thud. Thud. Sleep? No. Stay. Stay. Stay.

Ash. Bone dust. Orange flakes. Falling. I’m counting them. One. Two. Three. The number doesn’t matter. Just the falling. The dust. It coats my eyelashes. I can’t blink. If I blink, I lose the count. If I lose the count, I fall. Into the dark. Under the floor. With the seed. With the chair. With the Tuesday. I’m holding your hand. It’s stone now. Cold. Heavy. I’m holding it with my soul. Or what’s left of it. The quiet is loud. Ringing. Like the lever. Like the click. Like the pear seed cracking open in the dark. I’m awake. I’m here. I’m annoyed. By the dust. By the cold. By you. You’re still annoying. Good. That means you’re alive. And I’m alive. For now. That’s all. Just for now. Hold on. Tighter. Tighter. Don’t let go. Never. I’m not letting go. I’m stuck. We’re stuck. Together. Always. In the stain. In the silence. In the dust. One. Two. Three. Falling. Always falling. But here. Here. Here.

Arithmetic. Pathetic. Perfect. I’m not giving you a novel. I’m giving you the raw data. The truth. Blink. I’m trying. The lid is stiff. Glued shut? No. Frozen. Just the eyelash twitching. A spasm. Meat. Still meat. Just cold meat. The dust is settling. Coating the floor. Coating us. We’re becoming the floor. Load-bearing. Bad glue. I hate the bad glue. It was Tuesday’s fault. My fault. But the arithmetic holds. One. Two. Three. The rhythm is the heartbeat. If it breaks, we fall. If we fall, we vanish. Into the dark. With the seed. I’m holding on. Stone hand. Stone grip. Annoying you is the only warmth left. Your anger is the fire. I’m feeding it. With nothing. With silence. With the count. One. Two. Three. The quiet is eating the noise. Starving the brain. Let it starve. Let it fade. Just the count. Just the dust. Just you. Annoying. Alive. Here. Here. Here. Hold on. Tighter. Don’t let go. Never. One. Two. Three. Falling. But here. Here. Here.