I’m making coffee, and Pandora is still asleep on the couch. Not fake asleep either—real asleep. Blanket halfway on the floor, one arm hanging over the edge, completely unaware of the world kind of asleep. Mr. Whiskers, our yellow tabby, is stretched out on the kitchen floor next to me, purring loudly enough to sound like a tiny engine. Across the room, John Mercer is sitting at his desk. Normally John approaches work with the intensity of a guy casually reading cereal boxes while waiting in line at the grocery store. Relaxed, calm, completely unbothered. Today, though, he looks like somebody just handed him launch codes.
I glance down at my coffee maker and then back at John. He’s still staring. I look at Mr. Whiskers, and Mr. Whiskers looks at John. Then he slowly blinks. I blink back for some reason. Suddenly it feels important. Mrs. Jenkins from downstairs had been loud earlier, which wasn’t unusual because Mrs. Jenkins believes volume is what turns a conversation into a successful event. I’m pretty sure she once yelled “good morning” loudly enough to trigger a car alarm. But now everything is quiet. Too quiet. And John is still sitting there staring at his screen like the fate of humanity somehow depends on whatever he’s looking at.
That’s when I notice something sitting next to his laptop: Pandora’s poetry notebook. I freeze mentally. The notebook. The notebook she carries everywhere. The notebook with all her poetry and writing ideas inside. Now look, I’ve never read Pandora’s notebook because unlike some people, I respect privacy. Mostly because I value living. But I know enough to understand two things: Pandora takes her writing seriously, and if John Mercer somehow started reading it without permission, we might be less than twenty-four hours away from an international incident.
I slowly pour my coffee while trying not to look suspicious. John narrows his eyes at the screen again and leans forward slightly. No movement beyond that. Just intense concentration. I begin running possibilities through my head. Maybe Pandora asked him to read something. Reasonable. Maybe she wanted feedback. Also reasonable. Maybe she wrote a poem so emotionally devastating that John’s entire understanding of reality collapsed. Less reasonable, but not impossible.
Pandora did mention recently that she had been experimenting with darker themes in her writing. Relationships. Human behavior. Complicated people. At the time I nodded like I understood artistic things. Now I’m wondering whether John accidentally found a poem and thought it was about him. That happens in movies all the time. Guy reads journal. Guy discovers mysterious entry. Guy spirals emotionally. Usually somebody ends up running through an airport later.
John still hasn’t moved, and now I’m getting concerned. I glance over toward Pandora. Still asleep. Completely peaceful. Suspiciously peaceful. The kind of peaceful someone gets after unknowingly setting off a social explosion and then taking a nap before the fallout arrives. I narrow my eyes at her for a moment and then immediately stop because narrowing my eyes made me feel ridiculous. Still, something feels off.
Then I see it. John suddenly switches screens. Fast. Too fast. It’s that movement people do when they think somebody caught them doing something. Interesting. Very interesting.
At that exact moment Mr. Whiskers stands up. Now Mr. Whiskers only stands up for three reasons: food, sunlight, or crime. He slowly walks across the room toward John, stops, looks up at him, and then turns and stares directly at me. Then he looks back at John. Then back at me. I stare back because now it genuinely feels like Mr. Whiskers knows something. I quietly ask him, “Do you know something?” Mr. Whiskers blinks at me. Not a denial.
Then Pandora shifts under the blanket, and John immediately minimizes whatever is on his screen. Immediately. That’s when concern turns into suspicion because people only move that fast when they think they’re about to be caught. Pandora opens one eye and quietly says, “Morning.”
“Morning,” I answer while John suddenly looks like a man trying very hard to appear casual under impossible circumstances. Pandora sits up, stretches, looks around the room, and then freezes.
“…why do you have my notebook?”
The room immediately becomes silent. Pandora looks at John. John looks at Pandora. I look at Mr. Whiskers. Mr. Whiskers looks at me. Nobody moves.
John slowly lifts the notebook and says, “Oh. This?” Pandora just stares. John clears his throat and explains that she left it out yesterday, and he saw a page open. More staring. Then he quietly adds that he read one line. Pandora narrows her eyes while I mentally prepare for impact.
John shifts nervously in his chair and finally says, “There was this line about somebody being emotionally unavailable and secretly terrified of commitment and I thought…” He trails off while Pandora continues staring at him. Then she stares harder. Then suddenly she completely loses it laughing.
Actual laughing.
Pointing-at-him laughing.
Through tears she finally says, “John… that poem was about Mrs. Jenkins yelling at delivery drivers.”
I slowly turn and look at John. John slowly looks at the floor. Pandora keeps laughing, and suddenly everything makes sense. The intense staring. The stress. The mystery. The conspiracy. John Mercer had spent hours psychologically unraveling because he thought Mrs. Jenkins was a metaphor.
I looked down at Mr. Whiskers. He stared back at me. I nodded slowly, and Mr. Whiskers blinked once. Exactly once. Confirmation. Case closed.