“Day three.” Eli, standing in the staff room kitchenette area, leans in close to Maz with a smile aimed at the phone she holds. He taps the screen, marking the date off the calendar before her thumb can finish the journey from hovering over it.
Maz chuckles as she reaches past his arm and picks out a paper napkin from its dented box.
“Doesn’t matter if you didn’t even set it, you still can’t resist a routine, huh?”
With his back leaned against the countertop, Eli slides out the mint tin Ari gave them yesterday from his pocket and begins to spin it between his fingers. The scales inside roll in soft tumbles and without their usual rattle as Maz lays the napkin on the countertop.
The rolling ladder shrieks from the other side of the door, scraping across the shop floor. A thud follows its abrupt stop and leads to Meg’s laughter at the thing she must have knocked over.
Eli clicks open the tin as he turns, plucks a thick, dull green scale out, and places it on the napkin.
She watches him square it at the centre of the fold marks.
Don’t say it, but… No, no, stop it. He’s probably already aware. You won’t let him know that you’ve been counting… his tics? Nope.
He pockets the mint tin. “And then we need to halve it, right?” His arm sways between the cutlery drawer and the surface until it swings towards the microwave. Beside it, a letter opener sticks out of a wooden pen holder crammed with all sorts of odd tools except for pens.
“Good ol’ envelope slasher.” He wields it above the kettle as if it were a sword, its bent tip stabbing the air and the notched brass blade slicing past the floating flecks of dust.
He aligns the sharp length of the letter opener with the middle of the scale. As he saws through it, the gummy disc bulges at both sides. A squelch comes out of it before it tears. The napkin receives the worst of it when a streak of green paste stains it.
“Half for you.” He rolls the larger half towards her.
She takes it, and it slumps in her pinch with a slow collapse.
“Damp piece of–” She stops herself by popping it into her mouth, the spinach taste not wasting a moment to grate against her teeth.
Well, the chalky whatever-ness isn’t part of Ari’s usual sins. Not that you know what this should be anyway. Don’t gag. Don’t make a face. You’re fine.
His expression folds at the texture as he takes his.
Still not a fan. Did we ever discuss why we’re sticking to the instructions we allegedly left ourselves for this? I’d very much like the minutes from that meeting.
He wipes the remaining green smear left on the letter opener against the edge of the napkin before placing it back in the pen holder.
This is… trust or a natural instinct, and I clearly cannot tell which is worse.
A low grumble stirs through the building and stays undecided between turning out to be a bus outside or something deep in thought within the walls.
Eli’s head leans towards the sound.
Bus. Obviously, a bus.
He taps his fingers on the countertop in a forward crawl towards the pen holder until he shimmies it backwards to align it with a thin scratch on the surface near where it meets the wall. His hand withdraws for a second and returns to adjust it for half a turn.
Maz’s lips keep parting and closing before eventually she lets the words tumble out.
“You’ve been doing–” She catches herself and swaps the unsaid with a grin that feigns greater cheer than the mood in the room calls for.
“Good. M-hm, doing really well with the basement work.”
Eli looks at her, then lines the pen holder up with the base of an empty mug that stands beside it.
“Force of habit, I guess.”
She lifts the napkin and folds it in half to hide the green stain inside.
“No, I mean–”
“I know.”
Maz’s raised brow does the asking for her.
“I’m… It’s all wonderful and normal.” He turns to her, crossing his arms.
“Yeah. Yep, for sure.” The napkin becomes too small to deserve its name after she folds it in on itself three more times.
“I’m just… noting it.”
She throws the napkin into the bin under the counter.
Sure, because you’re looking for something to count and his fidgeting is the most consistent thing in the room right now. That’s not a great sign.
The ladder screeches again beyond the door. Meg’s voice seeps through, muffled, yet her tone travels clear enough to come across as an instruction to herself, followed by her hum of approval.
Eli uncrosses his arms, patting aimlessly at his jeans.
“Still no hiss?”
“Still nothing. It’s probably the new batch.” She points her chin at the tin in his pocket.
“Ari said it would still work.”
“He said should.”
“Of course.” She glances at the bin.
“Should.”
That ‘should’ is doing quite the busy work for a puny word.
“Did we feel anything yesterday?” He leans on the countertop.
“I felt spinach.” Maz’s eyes search the air above her.
Even if you saw the ceiling, it wouldn’t have a better answer.
“Besides that.”
“Honestly? I’m not sure if those notes we left ourselves were basically self-pranking. Wasn’t taking the scales supposed to make us forgetful? But we both remember yesterday, and apparently, the spinach not being the norm– regular flavour.” She remains staring upwards.
How’s that going to help anyone? He’s always the one trying to keep things useful. Try doing that.
“Maybe it’s cumulative.” Her gaze drops to the floor.
“Maybe it builds up properly after a few days. ‘Seven days’ was a thing, right?” Her hands find a hiding place in her pockets.
“Maybe.”
Eli turns to the pen holder and retrieves the letter opener.
Could that be true? I’m pretty sure she has no idea either. No doubt she’s arranging words into the same shape of reassurance. What are we expecting it to do?
His thumb runs down the sharp edge of the dented blade. He holds it at an angle, his eyes on the clustered pits that seem little enough to have been meant for a sieve.
I know it’s in my head somewhere.
He slides it back to its place.
Maz tilts her head at him.
He’s about to take it again in about a second.
He picks it up, flips it over twice, and puts it back down.
Maz reaches out to cover his hand. Her finger gives three soft taps on his knuckle. Eli watches her before closing his eyes. Her grip tightens a tick when she feels both of their pulses, five faint beats ghosting together under her touch. She doesn’t count, but they exhale together for a count of seven, as if releasing a held breath that never found its way in.
“At least we’re alright.” Her words land on the bin.
“Right. Obviously.”
The screeching sound returns from behind the door. Meg says something that starts with a cynical laugh and ends as a question. Ron’s quiet reply drowns out under a creaking that can only belong to the trapdoor hatch being pulled open.
“Alright, then.” Maz turns towards the door.
“Basement it is.”
Choosing inventory over panic counts as strategy. Probably.
Eli, a step behind her, shoots a sideways look at the pen holder.
Four more days of should. Right… and then what happens?
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