Identity

[Scene: A nearly deserted, dim-lit laundromat at the edge of a quiet street. Rows of old coin-operated machines hum and clunk in irregular rhythm. The air smells faintly of detergent and faintly more of burnt popcorn from a vending machine in the corner that no one trusts. Fluorescent lights flicker occasionally, as though they’re trying to make a point about impermanence. Nettle is leaning against a folding table, sipping something from a chipped mug that probably doesn’t belong to her. Tarrow sits on top of a humming dryer, long legs crossed, watching the drum turn like it’s trying to hypnotize her.]

Nettle:

“You ever notice how people introduce themselves like they’re a headline? ‘Hi, I’m Jordan, software engineer, runner, amateur beekeeper.’ Like they’re giving you the bullet points in case you need to build a Wikipedia page about them later.”

Tarrow:

“Better than, ‘Hi, I’m Jordan, I cry at traffic lights and eat toast over the sink.’”

Nettle:

“I’d trust that Jordan more. At least I know where they stand emotionally… and spatially.”

Tarrow:

“Toast over the sink is a survival tactic. Less mess.”

Nettle:

“Exactly. Efficient. But here’s the thing—if your entire sense of self can be reduced to a neat little elevator pitch, then congratulations, you’re a brochure. And brochures get left in lobby racks to fade in the sun until someone finally throws them out.”

Tarrow:

(sips from her own cup—tea, probably) “So your version of self-introduction would be what? A ransom note?”

Nettle:

“Closer to a scavenger hunt. You get a clue every time you earn it. ‘Today you learned I once got into a shouting match with a goose.’ You have to stick around for the follow-up: why the goose had it coming.”

Tarrow:

“I’d leave halfway through that hunt. There are only so many geese in life you can care about.”

Nettle:

“You say that now, but give it time. The goose becomes a metaphor. They always do.”

Tarrow:

“Maybe to you. I’ve never looked at a goose and thought, ‘Ah yes, that’s me.’”

Nettle:

“Not literally you. More like…the goose is every version of you you’ve ever been, all flapping and honking for attention, and you can only feed one at a time before the others get mean.”

Tarrow:

(tilts head, watching her for a moment) “Do you actually believe this or are you just warming up?”

Nettle:

“Bit of both. I’m saying—most people confuse what they do with who they are. It’s like if I said I’m ‘a coffee drinker, occasional napper, expert in avoiding phone calls,’ and expected that to sum up the entire… mess.”

Tarrow:

“Isn’t that just human nature? We like boxes. Labels.”

Nettle:

“Yeah, but it’s like sticking a Post-it note on the ocean that says ‘wet’ and calling it a day.”

Tarrow:

(quiet for a beat) “You’re implying we’re oceans.”

Nettle:

“Obviously. Some of us are deep and mysterious. Others smell weird and have tourists drowning in them every summer.”

Tarrow:

(smiling faintly) “So which are you?”

Nettle:

“Brackish tidepool. Sharp rocks. Possibly a dead crab.”

Tarrow:

“Sounds inviting.”

Nettle:

“Don’t dodge. What about you?”

Tarrow:

(after a long pause) “A reservoir. Controlled, managed. Fed by rivers you can’t see. And if you dive too deep, you’ll hit concrete.”

Nettle:

(lets that sit for a second) “That’s either poetic or worrying.”

Tarrow:

“It’s just geography.”

Nettle:

“Right. And your ‘geography’ is clearly shaped by a zoning committee.”

Tarrow:

“At least my zoning committee hasn’t been replaced by raccoons with opinions.”

Nettle:

“You have no proof of that.”

Tarrow:

“I have… enough.”

(A pause. The hum of the dryers fills the gap. Someone’s left a machine spinning with nothing inside, the empty drum clanking like a heartbeat with no sense of timing.)

Nettle:

“You ever think the whole identity thing is just… PR? Like, you’re not actually yourself, you’re just the story you’ve decided other people are allowed to read.”

Tarrow:

“Of course. And sometimes we edit the story until we believe it ourselves.”

Nettle:

“That’s the terrifying part. One day you realize you’re playing a role you auditioned for years ago and forgot the script was optional.”

Tarrow:

“You could quit.”

Nettle:

“Quit what?”

Tarrow:

“The role. Burn the script. Ad-lib the rest of your life.”

Nettle:

“That sounds great until you realize you’re improvising in front of people who think you’re still playing Hamlet.”

Tarrow:

“Then you confuse them. Give them something better to watch.”

Nettle:

(leans forward, grinning) “That’s the most chaotic thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Tarrow:

“Only because you think chaos is the default setting for bravery.”

Nettle:

“Not always. But it’s definitely one of the premium features.”

Tarrow:

“I’m more of a… long-game identity person.”

Nettle:

“Explain.”

Tarrow:

“I let people think they’ve figured me out. Then I change something small. Not enough to notice at first, but over time, they start to wonder if they ever knew me at all.”

Nettle:

“That’s either genius or psychopathic.”

Tarrow:

“Both can be true.”

Nettle:

“Yeah, but here’s the real question—if identity is this fluid, why do we even bother pretending it’s solid? Why not just own the fact that we’re in constant beta testing?”

Tarrow:

“Because most people find comfort in thinking they’re finished products. It’s exhausting to live like you’re a perpetual draft.”

Nettle:

“I live like a sticky note on a whiteboard.”

Tarrow:

“I know.”

Nettle:

“And you… you live like a sealed envelope.”

Tarrow:

(smiles, slow) “Maybe. But one day, someone will open it.”

Nettle:

“That’s either romantic or a threat.”

Tarrow:

“Again—both can be true.”

(They lapse into silence for a moment, just the hum and churn of the machines. The vending machine pops unexpectedly, making them both glance over.)

Nettle:

“Think the popcorn’s done developing its identity?”

Tarrow:

“Probably. Unlike us, it has no choice but to be what it is.”

Nettle:

“Tragic. Imagine reaching your final form at two minutes and thirty seconds.”

Tarrow:

“Some people peak earlier.”

Nettle:

“Yeah. But I’m holding out for a late-stage glow-up.”

Tarrow:

(softly) “We’ll see if I’m still around to watch.”

Nettle:

“You will be. Who else is gonna call me out when I start comparing myself to snack food?”

Tarrow:

“Anyone with ears.”

Nettle:

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”

(They both smile, the conversation folding into the familiar quiet of two people who know the argument’s over—not because they ran out of words, but because the shape of it feels complete.)