Nothing ever happens.
Three-hundred and sixty-five days a year, paid in installments of seven (give or take one) clicks of a pen. There are things to write, but you aren't writing them. You're distracted by the clicking of a pen that isn't yours.
He met you on the street by accident. You were standing in the way, waiting for nothing to happen, and you were already apologizing for his bump into you when it happened.
You hate being reminded of existing in your skin. Nobody is as aware of your skin as you are, sometimes, and your haste to look away from this stranger who doesn't know they've not yet finished bumping into you just proves it.
Eye contact isn't a great plan. They could be blue, or brown, "but are yours grey?"
Is he just noticing that, or is it a compliment? Because "I like your shirt," even though there's nothing on it — or there might be. You cannot check because you cannot make eye contact because you are trying to justify walking away.
His eyes are green.
It was your mistake to insist that that stranger had yet to finish bumping into you (when they had clearly already finished bumping into you when you apologized for them) but now that you did so, It's only fair for them to insist that they're still bumping into you, even though you'd like to walk away. Fair is fair, really, but "What's your name?"
"I'm" not listening, because you don't normally remember peoples names. It's not that you don't want to, but you reckon that any person's name who matters to you will stick eventually, so it doesn't really matter what the word is until it does. You know your bosses name, John. You know your name, "Alex."
"Michael."
You can feel your skin again.
Nothing happens in-between bumping into him.
He has a habit of clicking the pen while he's bored, but that's to be expected of hanging out like this. You don't know if you're meant to fill the dead air. It's awkward. The dead air makes it hard to tell if you are currently bumping into him, or if nothing is happening. It's awkward because it's more like you're in-between the two, but not in a time way. Something else.
Your skin crawls.
You bumped into Michael at the bar because he was there. He is two drinks deep, and you are counting, because you are not. It's a work night.
Michael mostly talks to other people, and that's fair, because you aren't saying much yourself. You know "it's your first time meeting them," and he already has a rapport, but the night feels so much longer than nights where nothing happens.
"Just relax."
You need to go to the bathroom. Horrible hangover.
Work.
Your skin is numb. You took an Ibuprofen.
The click of your pen is just like his, but worse, because you currently have a headache. It's getting hard to tell when it starts and ends, or isn't. It's always happening, except when it isn't, but then it might as well be.
The buzzing is a text asking if "Your up for friday?"
"idk…
Work" is getting harder to distinguish from something happening, because whenever nothing is happening, the dead air reminds you of him. He doesn't feel the need to break the silence, except when he does, and you never know when to break the eye contact once it starts.
A single brush up against his arm is one thing, a rash is another, constant contact means you're itching constantly. You shouldn't scratch an itch. It only makes it worse. "Is there an ointment for that?"
"Maybe," but it isn't working. You're flushed, brushing a hand against your thigh by accident.
Something is happening. You buy some moisturizer.
Boba balls are not an event. They are chewy, sucking, and the stop-start sputter of tea in your mouth makes the whole affair more active than you expected. Plus the starch, even when you stop for a moment, it lingers, gumming up your gums — that and the sugar. It's either more or less, but you got the sweetest option because Michael told you to.
"It's on me."
Spilling a tiny bit of it on your shirt is "no big deal," but its tiring. Your skin has never been so clean, until someone brought it up. "A bit too close" for comfort, but you're always bumping into him, anyway.
Something happened.
Flavor lingers on your tongue.
Something always happens.
Are you tired? Yes, but you're "up for wensday" and the day after. Drinks at the bar, and the friends, who you now have a rapport with and are "trying to get their names" but can't quite crack it because you're tired.
Work is important, "are you" getting it all done? No, but that's not "up" to you, is it? You need this to "keep going," so you can "keep going." You love your job, "don't" you? "Stop" kidding yourself. You love your job.
"I love you."
"You will be released from your position if you continue to miss deadlines. This is your last warning."
You're tired. He is disappointed.
"Friday gud?"
"Sry. Busy rn"
Work.
You bumped into Michael at the bar, from behind. You can feel your skin. It takes effort to catch up, "you're always busy lately," but it's great to hang out again.
His pen clicks once. There's so little dead air,
but nothing happens.
"Yo up for Thursday?"
"Work" gave you a day off, but you're tired, so nothing happens.
You click your pen once. Right now is the nothing happens between bumping into him. You're busy, so "Reach out when stuff clears up? Ok?"
You take apart your pen and put it back together.
You meet him on the street by accident. You say "hi."
"Hi."
Nothing ever happens.