I’m sitting in the living room watching Mr. Whiskers attempt the impossible. John bought him an expensive cat bed last month, yet he’s completely ignored it in favor of trying to squeeze himself into a cardboard box that’s barely larger than his head. He gets one paw inside, pauses as if reconsidering his life choices, then commits anyway. It’s oddly inspiring.
John Mercer is in his room working on his laptop. I can hear the steady rhythm of his keyboard through the wall. Whatever project he’s been buried in lately apparently requires enough typing to qualify as cardio.
Pandora is in the kitchen making dinner. The smell of garlic has slowly spread through the apartment until I’m fairly certain the curtains now qualify as Italian cuisine. She hums softly to herself while she cooks, occasionally stirring something with enough enthusiasm that I wonder if the saucepan has personally offended her.
Mrs. Jenkins stopped by earlier this afternoon.
She claimed she was simply dropping off a loaf of homemade bread because she’d “made too much,” which is something she says every single time she bakes. Nobody has ever confirmed whether she actually makes too much or just enjoys delivering bread to unsuspecting neighbors.
But today felt different.
She lingered in the doorway longer than usual. She glanced toward the kitchen twice, looked back at me, opened her mouth as though she wanted to say something, then smiled politely and wished me a pleasant afternoon before leaving.
The entire exchange lasted less than a minute, yet it has occupied far more of my brain than it probably deserves.
I’ve considered several possibilities.
Maybe she forgot what she wanted to tell me.
Maybe she remembered halfway down the hallway.
Maybe she simply realized she was late for something.
Those are all perfectly reasonable explanations.
Unfortunately, my brain prefers unreasonable ones.
Mr. Whiskers seemed interested in her too. The moment she arrived, his ears perked up and he watched her from across the room with the intense concentration usually reserved for birds outside the window or the sound of a can opener. Once she left, he relaxed immediately and returned to his ongoing campaign against the cardboard box.
That probably doesn’t mean anything.
Cats are mysterious creatures. They can spend twenty minutes staring at an empty corner and then panic because someone moved a chair three inches to the left.
Pandora eventually brought dinner to the table, still smelling faintly of garlic and herbs. She looked perfectly relaxed. We talked about our day, laughed about Mr. Whiskers’ latest attempt to violate the laws of geometry, and everything felt completely normal.
Which only made Mrs. Jenkins’ strange hesitation bother me more.
After dinner I finally looked out into the hallway through the peephole.
It was empty.
No hidden neighbors.
No suspicious activity.
No dramatic revelations waiting outside my door.
Just a quiet apartment building on an ordinary evening.
I suppose that’s the problem with noticing little things. Sometimes they really do matter.
And sometimes an elderly neighbor simply forgets what she was about to say while delivering fresh bread.
Knowing Mrs. Jenkins…
it’s probably fifty-fifty.