I’ve always considered myself a reasonably observant person. I notice when someone moves the television remote, when the refrigerator makes a noise it hasn’t made before, and when John Mercer puts an empty milk carton back instead of throwing it away. These aren’t particularly impressive talents, but I like to think they demonstrate a certain awareness of my surroundings. Which is why I find it remarkable that it took me nearly two weeks to notice what Pandora had been doing with her podcasts. Once I started paying attention, however, the pattern was impossible to ignore.
Pandora has always enjoyed listening to things while she goes about her day. Music, audiobooks, the occasional interview with someone I’ve never heard of who apparently has fascinating opinions about organizing closets. None of that bothers me. What caught my attention was how frequently she’d started wearing her earbuds around the house. She had them in while folding laundry, while making breakfast, and even while watering the plants. The other morning, I walked into the kitchen and found her standing in front of the refrigerator, laughing at something nobody else could hear. When I asked what was funny, she removed one earbud and said, “Oh, just something on my podcast.” Then she put it back in and continued smiling.
Now, I don’t expect to be included in every amusing moment of Pandora’s day, but I do think a person deserves some explanation when his girlfriend starts laughing at the refrigerator. I asked what she was listening to, and she told me it was a comedy podcast. Fair enough. But when I asked which one, she couldn’t remember the name without checking her phone. That struck me as unusual. If I were enjoying something enough to laugh at kitchen appliances, I’d probably remember what it was called. I didn’t say that, of course. I simply made a mental note and went about my morning, which in my case meant thinking about it for another twenty minutes.
A few days later, I noticed something else. Pandora seemed to be listening to her podcasts at very specific times. She’d put her earbuds in shortly after breakfast, usually around the time John Mercer wandered into the kitchen looking for coffee, and she’d listen again in the evening when we were all settling down. Sometimes she’d laugh quietly to herself. Other times she’d shake her head as though she’d just heard something unbelievable. Once, while I was explaining why I thought the washing machine was taking longer to finish its cycles, she nodded three times without looking up from her phone. I stopped talking halfway through my explanation and asked whether she’d heard anything I’d said. She replied, “Of course,” then asked me to repeat the last part.
I brought the matter up with John that evening. He was sitting on the couch trying to assemble a small bookshelf he’d ordered online, and I figured a man surrounded by mismatched screws might appreciate a distraction. I explained that Pandora’s podcast habits had changed and that I was beginning to suspect there was a reason for it. John looked at me over the instruction sheet. “Maybe she likes podcasts,” he suggested. I told him that was precisely the sort of obvious explanation that prevented people from discovering anything interesting. He considered this for a moment, then asked whether I could help him find a screw that had rolled under the couch. Apparently, my investigation wasn’t going to receive the attention it deserved.
The following morning, I decided to gather some actual evidence. Nothing intrusive, mind you. I wasn’t going to examine Pandora’s phone or follow her around the house. I simply paid attention to when she put her earbuds in and what happened immediately beforehand. At 8:12, John began telling us about a complicated problem he’d encountered while ordering replacement parts for his car. At 8:14, Pandora reached for her earbuds. At 8:17, she was smiling at something on her podcast while John continued explaining why the shipping company had sent him the wrong bracket. I couldn’t help noticing the timing. Three minutes of John’s automotive troubles, and Pandora had apparently decided she’d heard enough.
That afternoon, I tested my theory. Pandora was sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop when I began telling her about an interesting article I’d read concerning the history of coffee filters. I hadn’t actually finished reading the article, but I knew enough to make a respectable start. She listened politely while I explained how the design had evolved over the years. After about four minutes, she glanced toward her earbuds. I noticed immediately. “Am I boring you?” I asked. She looked genuinely surprised. “No, Hal. I’m trying to finish something for work.” I apologized and left her alone, although I couldn’t help thinking that my theory had just acquired another supporting detail.
By Friday, I had identified what I believed was a consistent pattern. Pandora seemed most interested in listening to podcasts whenever John or I launched into a lengthy explanation about something that mattered considerably more to us than it did to anyone else. I wasn’t offended. Well, not particularly. Everyone needs a little quiet now and then. Still, I couldn’t understand why she’d suddenly become so interested in whatever these podcasts were offering. I began to wonder whether they contained advice about dealing with difficult people, especially people who talked too much. That possibility bothered me more than I cared to admit.
Mrs Jenkins stopped by that afternoon with a small container of homemade cookies, and I mentioned the situation while we were standing near the front door. She listened with the patient expression of someone who had heard far stranger things from me. “Sometimes it’s nice to have a little company while you’re doing chores,” she said. I agreed, but explained that Pandora’s listening habits seemed to coincide with certain conversations. Mrs Jenkins smiled and asked whether I’d considered that Pandora might simply enjoy listening to something cheerful. I told her I had, but that the timing remained suspicious. She handed me the cookies and said, “Well, dear, perhaps you should try listening to one yourself.” It was a reasonable suggestion, although I couldn’t help wondering whether she was gently trying to tell me something.
That evening, I asked Pandora if she’d recommend one of her favorite podcasts. She seemed pleased that I was interested and immediately began scrolling through her phone. I expected something about psychology, relationships, or perhaps the subtle art of surviving life with an overly curious boyfriend. Instead, she showed me a comedy program featuring two people discussing ordinary household disasters. The episode she recommended was about a man who spent an entire weekend trying to determine why his refrigerator door wouldn’t close properly, only to discover that he’d been storing a large pizza box sideways. I laughed at the description. It sounded exactly like the sort of ridiculous situation I’d enjoy hearing about, provided I wasn’t personally involved.
Pandora suggested we listen to it together while preparing dinner. I agreed, and for the next half hour we stood in the kitchen chopping vegetables and laughing at stories about broken appliances, misplaced car keys, and arguments over the correct way to load a dishwasher. I had to admit the podcast was genuinely funny. There was something comforting about discovering that other households contained people who took ordinary problems far too seriously. At one point, the hosts described a man who had created a spreadsheet to track how frequently his family members left lights on in empty rooms. I told Pandora that seemed unnecessarily complicated. She stopped chopping an onion and looked at me. “Hal, you once counted how many times John left the hallway light on in a week.” I reminded her that I’d been conducting an informal survey, which was completely different.
The next episode was even better. One of the hosts told a story about someone who had become convinced that his partner was deliberately hiding his favorite coffee mug. He searched the entire house, questioned everyone who lived there, and eventually discovered it in a cupboard he’d already checked three times. I stood perfectly still, holding a wooden spoon. Pandora was laughing so hard she had to put down the knife. The details weren’t identical to our recent experience, but they were close enough to make me uncomfortable. I looked at her and asked whether she’d somehow submitted our mug incident to the podcast. She shook her head, still laughing, and assured me that she hadn’t. Apparently, the world was full of men who became emotionally attached to ceramic drinkware.
That was when I noticed something important. Pandora wasn’t listening to these podcasts because she was upset or trying to avoid me. She was listening because she enjoyed them, and because some of the stories reminded her of the ridiculous things that happened in our own house. In fact, she’d been saving a few episodes specifically because she thought John and I would appreciate them. She just hadn’t found a convenient time to play them for us. I felt a little foolish for having turned a perfectly ordinary hobby into a household mystery, but at least I finally understood what had been making her laugh.
John came into the kitchen just as the next episode started. He asked what we were listening to, and Pandora explained that it was a comedy podcast about everyday misunderstandings. John leaned against the counter and listened for a few minutes while helping himself to a cookie. The hosts were discussing a man who believed his neighbor was stealing his newspapers, only to discover that the wind had been blowing them beneath his own porch. John laughed and said, “That sounds like something Hal would do.” I pointed out that I’d never accused anyone of stealing newspapers. He reminded me of the afternoon I’d become suspicious about Mrs Jenkins’ garden gnomes. I told him that was an entirely different situation and that several of those gnomes had been moved under circumstances I still considered questionable.
By the time we’d finished dinner, John had subscribed to the podcast, Pandora was recommending her favorite episodes, and I was beginning to enjoy myself. Mr Whiskers, who had spent most of the evening watching us from his usual spot near the kitchen doorway, finally decided he’d had enough of being ignored. He jumped onto an empty chair, reached toward the table, and knocked one of John’s pens onto the floor. John bent down to retrieve it, and Mr Whiskers immediately occupied his seat. The cat looked enormously pleased with himself. I suggested that his behavior demonstrated a calculated understanding of cause and effect, but Pandora told me he probably just wanted the warm chair. I wasn’t convinced. Mr Whiskers has been conducting successful furniture acquisitions for years.
Later that night, while Pandora was getting ready for bed, I sat on the couch thinking about everything I’d discovered. My original theory hadn’t been entirely wrong. There was a pattern to her listening habits, and certain household conversations did seem to encourage her to reach for her earbuds. But the explanation was considerably less sinister than I’d imagined. She liked having something entertaining to listen to while she worked, and she particularly enjoyed stories about people who complicated their own lives by overthinking simple situations. I could appreciate the appeal. Some people are genuinely talented at making ordinary events unnecessarily complicated.
The following morning, I found Pandora sitting at the kitchen table with her coffee and one earbud in. She smiled when she saw me and asked whether I’d slept well. I told her I had, then mentioned that I’d been thinking about the podcast and had noticed something interesting about the way the hosts structured their stories. She nodded politely while I explained my theory about how the timing of a joke affected its impact. After several minutes, she reached toward her other earbud.
I stopped talking.
“Pandora,” I asked, “are you putting that in because I’m explaining something again?”
She looked at me for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Hal, I’m putting it in because the next episode is starting.”
I considered that explanation, then asked whether the episode was about anyone who spent too much time analyzing his girlfriend’s listening habits.
She smiled. “Not yet.”
John, who had just walked into the kitchen, heard the exchange and nearly spilled his coffee. “You should send them your story,” he said. “They could get a whole season out of you.”
I told him that was ridiculous. Nobody would want to listen to an entire podcast about my everyday observations.
Then I thought about it for a moment.
Actually, I might have enough material for two seasons.
Pandora quietly put in her other earbud.