I’m sitting on the couch watching John Mercer fiddle with his phone, and I’m beginning to understand why some people throw electronics into lakes. He’s been trying to order a new charger for what feels like several hours, although realistically it’s probably been twenty minutes. The problem is that John doesn’t simply buy things. John researches them. He compares them. He reads reviews written by people who apparently have very strong opinions about electrical cables. Then he closes the app, opens it again, searches for the exact same charger, and begins the entire process over.
Pandora walks through the living room with her purse over her shoulder and says she’s going out for coffee.
I look at the cup sitting on the table beside me.
Then I look at her.
“We have coffee.”
“I know.”
That’s all she says.
The door closes behind her.
Interesting.
Mr. Whiskers is stretched across my lap, purring with the serenity of an animal who contributes absolutely nothing financially to this household yet somehow experiences less stress than everyone who does. I scratch behind his ears while watching the door.
“Did that seem strange to you?”
Mr. Whiskers continues purring.
John doesn’t look up from his phone. “What?”
“Pandora.”
“What about her?”
“She went out for coffee.”
John finally looks at me. “People do that.”
“We have coffee.”
John stares at me for a moment, then returns to his charger search.
Nobody is taking this seriously.
I start thinking about Pandora’s behavior over the last few days. She has seemed distracted. Maybe distant. Yesterday I asked what she wanted for dinner and she said, “Whatever you want,” which sounds cooperative until you understand that no human being in a committed relationship has ever said those words without there being additional information hidden somewhere underneath them.
Maybe she’s stressed about work. That would make sense. Pandora gets absorbed in things sometimes, and I know better than to interpret every quiet moment as evidence of a crisis.
I do know better.
Knowing better and actually doing better are apparently two separate departments in my brain.
John sighs dramatically at his phone.
“What now?”
“This one has twelve thousand reviews.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Four point six stars.”
“Buy it.”
“But the other one has four point seven.”
I stare at him.
He stares at the screen.
Maybe Pandora didn’t leave because of me. Maybe she left because John Mercer has transformed our living room into the headquarters of an international charger procurement operation.
That possibility comforts me for approximately thirty seconds.
Then I remember last weekend.
Pandora was quiet when we were out together. I noticed it then but didn’t say anything because John was talking about something—I don’t remember what—and Pandora kept checking her phone. At the time I assumed it was work. Now I’m wondering if she was avoiding a conversation with me.
Mr. Whiskers shifts on my lap.
“What?”
His eyes remain closed.
“You noticed it too.”
John looks over. “Are you talking to the cat?”
“No.”
I wait until John looks away.
“What did you notice?”
Mr. Whiskers yawns.
That could mean anything.
A few minutes later, there’s movement outside the window. Mrs. Jenkins is tending to something near her plants. Mr. Whiskers immediately climbs off my lap, jumps onto the windowsill, and stares outside.
There.
That’s exactly the sort of thing I’ve been noticing.
Mrs. Jenkins appears. Mr. Whiskers goes to the window.
Coincidence?
Probably.
But technically I don’t know that.
I get up and stand beside him. Mrs. Jenkins is moving between several pots with a watering can. Nothing unusual. No suspicious visitors. No packages changing hands. No coded signals that I can identify.
Mr. Whiskers watches intently.
“You know something.”
John sighs behind me.
I turn around. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You sighed.”
“I’m buying the charger.”
Finally.
“Which one?”
“The four-point-six.”
“Why?”
“Ships tomorrow.”
A rational decision. I’m genuinely impressed.
Then my phone buzzes.
It’s Pandora.
**Getting some quiet for a little while. Be home soon. Love you.**
I read the message twice.
Quiet.
She went somewhere else for quiet.
I slowly turn toward John.
He’s no longer talking.
He’s sitting peacefully on the couch ordering a charger.
Mr. Whiskers is sitting peacefully on the windowsill watching Mrs. Jenkins water flowers.
The apartment is remarkably quiet.
Except for me.
I think back over the last several days. Pandora seemed distracted, so I asked whether something was wrong. She said no. I asked again later. She still said no. Yesterday I asked if she was sure. Last night I mentioned that she seemed quieter than usual. This morning I asked if she was upset with me because she put her coffee cup down harder than normal.
At the time, these seemed like reasonable observations.
Taken together, they begin to look less reasonable.
I sit back down.
John glances at me.
“What?”
“I think I might be the problem.”
John lowers his phone.
He doesn’t say anything, which is probably wise.
“I mean, not *the* problem,” I clarify. “Obviously there could still be other factors.”
John raises his phone again.
“But maybe a contributing factor.”
He nods.
That nod bothers me.
“How long have you thought that?”
“I’m staying out of this.”
“You nodded very quickly.”
“I didn’t nod.”
“You absolutely nodded.”
Mr. Whiskers turns around on the windowsill and looks at me.
Now both of them are doing it.
I pick up my phone and read Pandora’s message again. *Getting some quiet for a little while.*
Maybe that’s all this is.
Maybe Pandora isn’t hiding anything. Maybe she isn’t avoiding me because something mysterious happened. Maybe she’s been stressed, and every time she gets quiet I begin investigating the silence like it’s evidence from a crime scene.
That would explain quite a lot, actually.
It would explain why she looked irritated this morning when I asked if her choice of cereal meant something.
In retrospect, that question may have been unnecessary.
I send her a message.
**Enjoy your coffee. I’ll see you when you get home. Love you too.**
Then I put my phone down.
There.
Healthy.
Normal.
Emotionally mature.
John looks impressed.
Or maybe relieved.
For the next ten minutes, I don’t analyze anything. I don’t ask John questions. I don’t interrogate Mr. Whiskers. I don’t monitor Mrs. Jenkins. I simply sit on the couch and enjoy the silence.
It’s actually nice.
Maybe I’ve learned something today.
Maybe sometimes there isn’t a mystery. Sometimes Pandora just wants coffee somewhere other than our kitchen. Sometimes John Mercer just needs a charger. Sometimes Mrs. Jenkins is simply watering her plants. Sometimes Mr. Whiskers is looking out the window because he’s a cat.
I feel surprisingly peaceful.
Then Mr. Whiskers stands.
His ears perk forward.
He stares intensely through the window toward Mrs. Jenkins’ plants.
I follow his gaze.
Mrs. Jenkins bends down, reaches behind one of the large flowerpots, and pulls out a small metal box.
I sit forward.
John notices.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The conspiracy face.”
Mrs. Jenkins looks around.
Then she carries the box inside.
I slowly stand.
John points at me.
“Hal.”
“I’m just looking.”
“Sit down.”
“She looked around first.”
“People look around.”
“Not like that.”
“You literally just admitted you’re the problem.”
“I said I might be *a contributing factor*. That’s completely different.”
Mr. Whiskers looks up at me.
I look down at him.
Then we both look toward Mrs. Jenkins’ place.
I knew that cat saw something.
So yes, maybe I’ve been overthinking Pandora.
Maybe I need to give her more space.
Maybe I should stop treating every ordinary change in human behavior like the opening stages of an elaborate conspiracy.
That’s growth.
But none of that explains the metal box.
And I think we need to be very careful about throwing out perfectly good instincts just because I happened to misuse them several dozen times before.
John tells me to sit down.
I sit down.
For now.
Mr. Whiskers stays at the window.
Good.
At least one of us is still on the case.