Conversation · Sylvie

"Then there was your room. Your project, an experiment to see how bad it can get in there."

"I tried to send the cleaner, but you wouldn't let me. Threatened to 'make me understand'. I had no idea what you meant -- and I don't want to know."

"And then you screamed something incomprehensible about churches and the scent of apricots and aquariums." She takes a deep breath.

"That's it? That's not so bad."

"And then I had to deal with your toilet. The one you clogged with police documents, causing water damage downstairs in the kitchen."

"I won't even mention you waving your gun around, harassing customers, threatening to sing karaoke, threatening to kill yourself..."

"Wait -- police documents?"

"I, ugh... the ones I had to wrench out of your toilet."

"Ah yes, that paperwork. I found it."

"Good. Then it's not lost." She seems a little relieved. "Just don't throw it in the toilet again. Toilets don't work like that."

"Okay, I get it. I wasn't a very good tenant."

"No, you really weren't. You were simply the worst."

"I am truly sorry for everything, Sylvie."

"God, I... I knew I shouldn't have brought it up. Just... try not to call me again and let's pretend it never happened."

"Girl, just loosen up a little... Don't you ever party?"

"Huh, I don't even know what to say..."

"I was trying to show you the world of tomorrow. The Great Panic at The End."

"Well, you're the worst tavern wench I've ever seen!"

"What happened to them?"

"I... dammit, I don't remember what I did to your damn papers! I don't remember every little thing I do." Resentment gives way to concern in her voice.

She's worried she might have accidentally done something bad. Then she remembers it's you.

"Especially when there's a hurricane loose. It's your fault for losing them -- not mine."

Something in you wants to immediately forget about this. As if there was a reason you threw them away.

"Sounds intense."

"I'm sorry."

"Hold on, which song?"

"'We Go On' by the OO." She sighs. "I can't listen to it anymore, you've turned it into a parody."

"Sorry. Sorry about the song."

"To hell with that song..."

"I think I've heard enough." (Back off.)

"I bet."

"You said I was singing. What did I sing? I'm looking for a song..."

"Oh, all sorts of things. Some disco, rock too. So much disco and rock..."

"Was I singing... "The Smallest Church In Saint-Saëns"?"

"Yes. That's the one you liked to sing along to the most. The later it got the more that one came on."

Interesting... you still have to find a copy though. Before you can blast it.

"Maybe you can help me identify this one particular song..."

"Which one would that be?"

"One that was really sad."

"Sad? I think the one you mean is "The Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns". Butchered that right up..." Her voice carries a tone of disappointment.

Interesting... you still have to find it, however.

"All sorts of things. The OO. Some disco, rock too. So much disco and rock..."

"Right, thank you for talking with me. Take care." [Leave.]

You hear a sigh of relief on the other end of the radio. Wordless, the call breaks. Then the already familiar voice:

"Anything else I can help you with, officer?"

"What skua thing?"

"The stuffed bird. The great skua. You threw it against the wall, while screaming 'fuck that bird' and laughing like a maniac."

"I think you said it had been giving you shit ever since you got there."

"This doesn't sound anything like me, I love birds!"

"Yes, well..." The static on the radio suggests Sylvie doesn't have a comment.

Rubbish! You're a green hat and feather totin' birdwatcher!

"Actually, I think I might be a birdie. A birdwatching enthusiast, you know."

Her voice reappears from the static: "That's wonderful, really. Maybe you should keep pursuing that hobby. Maybe it would calm you down a little."

Am I, though?

Or a cop with brain damage. One of the two.

"This sounds like me alright."

"Didn't seem like you had fun doing it though."

"Bitch bird got what was coming to her."

"Okay, officer..." Her voice is withdrawing as if she's moving away from the speaker.

Crackling static... more static and yes, more of that sweet static. The violence of your words is obviously scaring her.