I’m sitting on the couch, staring at Pandora while she’s completely engrossed in her phone. Mr Whiskers is sprawled across my lap, purring softly as he wedges his head into the crook of my arm like he pays rent here, and John Mercer is in the kitchen rummaging through the refrigerator for leftovers he will almost certainly claim he was “just checking.” The television is humming quietly in the background, Pandora is scrolling, Mr Whiskers is vibrating against my leg, and everything should feel perfectly normal.
Except Pandora keeps checking her phone.
I noticed it about twenty minutes ago. Or maybe fifteen. I’m not timing her or anything. That would be weird. But she has definitely looked at that phone more often than usual. Every few minutes the screen lights up, she glances down, taps something, and goes back to whatever she was doing. At first I assumed it was work. Then I wondered if Karen had texted her, except Karen is my coworker and there’s no particular reason she should suddenly be conducting an extended text conversation with Pandora. Dave crossed my mind too, but that makes even less sense. Dave works with me. Why would Dave be texting Pandora?
Actually, that’s a very good question.
Mr Whiskers shifts on my lap and looks up at me.
“You seeing this?” I whisper.
He blinks.
Exactly.
I try watching television again, but now that I’ve noticed Pandora checking her phone, I can’t stop noticing Pandora checking her phone. It’s one of those things where once you see it, you can’t unsee it. Like a crooked picture frame. Or John Mercer putting an empty milk carton back in the refrigerator.
John walks back into the living room carrying a plate of something I don’t remember buying.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Perfect,” I say.
He looks at me for a second.
Then at Pandora.
Then back at me.
Interesting.
John sits down as if nothing unusual has happened, which is exactly what someone would do if something unusual had happened and he didn’t want me to know about it.
Pandora’s phone lights up again.
She looks at it.
I look at her.
She looks up and catches me looking at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She stares at me for another second and goes back to her phone.
That was suspicious.
Or maybe I made it suspicious by staring at her like a detective who had just discovered the murder weapon. Hard to tell.
Mr Whiskers begins kneading my leg with his paws.
I look down at him.
“You’re unusually calm about this.”
He continues kneading.
Of course he is.
I decide that maybe Pandora is simply bored. People check their phones when they’re bored. I check my phone when I’m bored. John checks his phone constantly, although half the time I’m convinced he’s just opening the weather app because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.
Still, Pandora isn’t merely checking her phone.
She’s checking it.
There’s a difference.
I can’t explain the difference, but I know one exists.
The screen lights up again. Pandora glances at it and smiles.
There.
That changes everything.
Someone sent something that made her smile.
I immediately run through the possibilities. Work? Unlikely. Nobody smiles at work messages. A friend? Possible. Some ridiculous video? Also possible. A secret international intelligence network coordinating activities through encrypted messaging applications?
Statistically less likely.
But not impossible.
John looks over.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The staring thing.”
“I’m watching television.”
“The television is over there.”
I look toward the television.
He’s right.
That doesn’t prove anything.
I reposition Mr Whiskers and try to concentrate on the show, but my brain has already begun constructing a timeline. Pandora checked her phone at least four times. Maybe five. She smiled once. John noticed me noticing her. John then attempted to distract me by pointing out that I wasn’t watching television.
That’s three pieces of evidence.
Granted, none of them are evidence of anything.
But they’re still pieces.
Then I remember something from work. Earlier this week, Karen asked me whether Pandora was doing okay. At the time, I assumed she was just being polite. But what if she already knew something? And yesterday Dave told me I looked tired.
Why would Dave say that?
Because I looked tired, obviously.
Unless he was checking whether I’d been awake late enough to notice something.
I sit up slightly.
Mr Whiskers gives me an irritated look because my movement has disturbed his position.
And suddenly I remember the way Dave changed the subject at work when I mentioned Pandora had been distracted lately. I thought nothing of it at the time. Now I’m thinking something of it.
A lot of something.
Maybe Karen knows something. Maybe Dave knows Karen knows something. Maybe John knows that Dave knows Karen knows something.
Pandora’s phone lights up again.
She picks it up.
Mr Whiskers lifts his head.
I freeze.
Pandora types something.
Mr Whiskers jumps off my lap.
I stare at him.
He walks directly toward Pandora.
Oh, come on.
Now even the cat is involved.
Mr Whiskers jumps onto the couch beside her and rubs his head against her arm. Pandora scratches behind his ears without taking her eyes off the phone.
There it is.
Communication.
I don’t know what kind, obviously, but something just happened.
“You two seem awfully coordinated today,” I say.
Pandora looks at me.
“Me and the cat?”
I nod.
John slowly lowers his fork.
Pandora looks at Mr Whiskers, then back at me.
“He wanted attention.”
“Convenient.”
“For whom?”
Good question.
I hadn’t gotten that far yet.
Pandora shakes her head and returns to her phone. John continues eating, although I notice he’s doing it considerably more quietly now. Probably because he’s listening.
I start thinking about Mrs Jenkins next door. She hasn’t done anything suspicious today, which in itself feels slightly suspicious considering how often she accidentally ends up involved in these things. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe everyone has finally realized I’ve been paying attention and Mrs Jenkins has deliberately stayed out of sight.
That’s actually pretty clever.
I glance toward the wall separating our place from hers.
Nothing.
Too quiet.
Meanwhile, Mr Whiskers is sitting beside Pandora staring directly at me.
I stare back.
He blinks once.
I blink once.
He blinks again.
I don’t.
Nice try.
The entire situation is becoming clearer now. Pandora has been checking her phone. John has been pretending nothing unusual is happening. Karen asked about Pandora at work. Dave changed the subject when I mentioned her. Mrs Jenkins has remained suspiciously absent. And Mr Whiskers has abandoned my lap to sit beside Pandora at precisely the moment she received another message.
Individually, these things mean absolutely nothing.
Together?
They also probably mean absolutely nothing.
But that isn’t the point.
The point is that I’m the only person who seems to be noticing them.
Pandora’s phone buzzes again.
I watch her pick it up.
She reads the message.
Then she laughs.
Not smiles.
Laughs.
That’s it.
“Who keeps texting you?”
Pandora looks up.
For the first time all evening, John Mercer stops chewing.
Even Mr Whiskers turns toward me.
Pandora holds up her phone.
“My sister.”
I stare at her.
“Your sister?”
“She keeps sending me pictures.”
Pandora turns the phone around.
There is a photograph of a dog wearing sunglasses.
I look at Pandora.
I look at John.
I look at Mr Whiskers.
Mr Whiskers looks at the dog.
Then he looks at me.
I know what everyone expects me to believe.
Pandora has simply been texting her sister. John Mercer was simply hungry. Karen was simply making conversation at work. Dave simply thought I looked tired. Mrs Jenkins is simply minding her own business next door. And Mr Whiskers is simply a cat who moved from one side of the couch to the other.
It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Almost too reasonable.
I lean back against the couch.
Pandora goes back to her phone. John goes back to eating. Mr Whiskers curls up beside her as if nothing happened.
Nobody says another word about it.
And somehow, that bothers me more than anything.
Because either I’ve spent the last half hour constructing an elaborate conspiracy out of a woman texting her sister and a cat changing seats…
…or everyone in this apartment has gotten very good at covering their tracks.
I look at Mr Whiskers.
He closes his eyes.
Yeah.
I’m definitely the only one who notices.