我看了看那几卷样布。它们在仓库的角落里堆着，像躺着的尸体，身上落满了灰尘。
我给工厂的负责人打了个电话，电话接通前，我听了一会儿那种单调的忙音，觉得那声音比接通后要真诚。
负责人说，快了，也就是这几天。
我说，这几天是哪几天。
他说，就是你觉得快了的那几天。
我说，我觉得快了的那几天已经过去了。
负责人在那头沉默了一会儿，背景里有机器隆隆的声音，听起来像是在磨碎一些没用的时间。
他说，样布就在那儿，它不动，是因为它还没到时候动。
我觉得他说得对。
样布还没到时候动，是因为裁剪房还没到时候开；裁剪房还没到时候开，是因为上一单还没到时候收尾。
大家都在等一个“到时候”，但谁也不知道那个时刻由谁来宣布。
我放下电话，觉得身体里也有一台机器在转，但没磨碎什么，只是空转。
后来我发现，催促这件事本身并不是为了上裁剪房，而是为了证明我还没消失，负责人也没消失。
我们隔着两三个楼层，通过电波确认彼此还在这种无意义的螺旋里呼吸。
这很傻，但没关系，哪怕衣服永远不出来，只要电话还能打通，这生意就算是正在进行。
I called the factory manager. Before he picked up, I listened to the flat, repetitive dial tone for a while. Somehow it felt more honest than the conversation that was about to follow.
“We’re close,” he said after answering. “Just a few more days.”
“Which few days?” I asked.
“The kind of days that feel close,” he replied.
“I think those days already passed.”
He went silent for a moment. Behind him, machines rumbled continuously somewhere on the factory floor, a heavy mechanical sound that seemed less like production and more like time being crushed into powder.
“The fabric is still sitting there,” he finally said. “It hasn’t moved because it’s not time for it to move yet.”
I thought about it for a second and realised he was probably right.
The fabric hadn’t moved because the cutting room hadn’t opened yet.
The cutting room hadn’t opened because the previous order still hadn’t finished.
Everything was waiting for the right moment, though nobody seemed to know who had the authority to declare when that moment had arrived.
After I hung up, I sat there for a while. It felt like there was a machine turning somewhere inside me too, except it wasn’t producing anything. It was only spinning.
Later, I realised that calling to rush the order had never really been about getting the fabric onto the cutting tables. It was about proving that neither of us had disappeared.
Two people in the same building, separated by a few floors and a phone line, checking that the other was still trapped inside the same endless loop.
It felt stupid when I thought about it long enough. But maybe that didn’t matter.
Even if the clothes never came out at all, as long as the calls were still connecting, everyone could continue pretending the business was moving forward.
我给工厂的负责人打了个电话，电话接通前，我听了一会儿那种单调的忙音，觉得那声音比接通后要真诚。
负责人说，快了，也就是这几天。
我说，这几天是哪几天。
他说，就是你觉得快了的那几天。
我说，我觉得快了的那几天已经过去了。
负责人在那头沉默了一会儿，背景里有机器隆隆的声音，听起来像是在磨碎一些没用的时间。
他说，样布就在那儿，它不动，是因为它还没到时候动。
我觉得他说得对。
样布还没到时候动，是因为裁剪房还没到时候开；裁剪房还没到时候开，是因为上一单还没到时候收尾。
大家都在等一个“到时候”，但谁也不知道那个时刻由谁来宣布。
我放下电话，觉得身体里也有一台机器在转，但没磨碎什么，只是空转。
后来我发现，催促这件事本身并不是为了上裁剪房，而是为了证明我还没消失，负责人也没消失。
我们隔着两三个楼层，通过电波确认彼此还在这种无意义的螺旋里呼吸。
这很傻，但没关系，哪怕衣服永远不出来，只要电话还能打通，这生意就算是正在进行。
The Right Moment
I looked over at the rolls of fabric stacked in the corner of the warehouse. They sat there quietly, coated in dust, like bodies that had been left behind and forgotten.I called the factory manager. Before he picked up, I listened to the flat, repetitive dial tone for a while. Somehow it felt more honest than the conversation that was about to follow.
“We’re close,” he said after answering. “Just a few more days.”
“Which few days?” I asked.
“The kind of days that feel close,” he replied.
“I think those days already passed.”
He went silent for a moment. Behind him, machines rumbled continuously somewhere on the factory floor, a heavy mechanical sound that seemed less like production and more like time being crushed into powder.
“The fabric is still sitting there,” he finally said. “It hasn’t moved because it’s not time for it to move yet.”
I thought about it for a second and realised he was probably right.
The fabric hadn’t moved because the cutting room hadn’t opened yet.
The cutting room hadn’t opened because the previous order still hadn’t finished.
Everything was waiting for the right moment, though nobody seemed to know who had the authority to declare when that moment had arrived.
After I hung up, I sat there for a while. It felt like there was a machine turning somewhere inside me too, except it wasn’t producing anything. It was only spinning.
Later, I realised that calling to rush the order had never really been about getting the fabric onto the cutting tables. It was about proving that neither of us had disappeared.
Two people in the same building, separated by a few floors and a phone line, checking that the other was still trapped inside the same endless loop.
It felt stupid when I thought about it long enough. But maybe that didn’t matter.
Even if the clothes never came out at all, as long as the calls were still connecting, everyone could continue pretending the business was moving forward.