Two days.
By myself.
Chapter 22
Can we all just admit that that was totally bizarre? I mean, first the guy comes in, swoops in, really . . . then he doesn’t say anything. Not a word. Then, when he does say something, he doesn’t even know how he got there.
Wait.
The thought hits me.
Maybe heeeeeeee is . . . on drugs.
Maybe that’s his problem.
Maybe he’s just a total stoner. Maybe he decided to start celebrating the weekend early and just lost track of the normal parameters of space and time.
It’s not like that’s the first time that’s happened to a person.
I heard of a guy who smoked a bunch of LSD and then tried to fly. Jumped off a building! I know. Splat. Just like that. Gone-o.
So, maybe that’s all it was with our dear Mike.
He seemed a little square to me, but never judge a book by its cover.
Also, that would account for the no-talky thing. How could he form words if he couldn’t even figure out space and time?
And the glassy eyes.
I’ve heard that that happens, too.
So, you see. Again. Occam’s razor. The simplest explanation is probably the correct one.
The guy was blotto.
These are the niceties I tell myself as I make my way to the kitchen to make my ever-so-nutritious ramen noodles out of the packet. Five for ninety-nine cents. You really can’t beat that.
I know, I know. Please don’t lecture me about kale or lettuce or quinoa. I just need some delicious yet easy-to-make comfort food. Something warm and simple to take up with me to the comfort of my bedroom as I space out watching the latest Ancient Aliens and fall asleep dreaming about the Sumerians and how their first leader was supposed to rule for thirty thousand years.
Simple stuff.
As is my wont, I fill the giant blue pot with water and light the stove. (It’s gas; you have to light it. I know, annoying.) Then I place the pot of water on the burner and look through the cupboard for my ramen noodle packet, spicy chicken flavor.
Then, I turn back to the burner and this is when the world ends.
Chapter 23
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would like to hereby assert that, under penalty of perjury, what I’m going to tell you now is absolutely, 100 percent true. There are no drugs involved, no booze, not even a chamomile tea.
And I know you’re not going to believe me.
But I’m telling you.
I did not leave the room.
I did not even take more than a half step.
I was there the whole time.
Right there.
And . . . when I turn back to the burner where I just put the blue pot, which I just filled with water . . .
It’s not there.
Oh, the burner is still going. That all is keeping up with reality.
But no pot.
And then . . . I look at the counter, look at the sink, look in my hands, for God’s sake . . . and still no pot.
And then I see it.
Not casually set about, or happenstance over to the side, or asymmetrical in any way.
Nope.
Nope.
The pot, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is . . .
Perfectly placed. Not an inch to the right or left.
Pristinely set.
In the middle of the kitchen floor.
Chapter 24
I know I know I know. It’s just a pot. Right? I mean how could it mean anything? I get it.
But the problem is that there is no physical way in the universe that said pot could have moved. Nope. No way.
And the precision of it. It’s so pristinely placed in the middle of the floor. You could measure it, from each side. The exact center.
This makes no sense.
I stare at the pot in the middle of the white kitchen tile floor.
What to do, what to do . . . ?
“Okay, self. You’re basically staring in fear at a pot right now. I mean, get ahold of yourself. It’s just . . . a . . . pot. We’re just going to pretend that didn’t happen. That somehow there is a logical explanation for this.”
I know the next step but I don’t want to say it.
“Daffodil, you have to just pick up the pot now . . . act like everything’s normal . . . and put it back on the stove. That’s it. This is not rocket science.”
I exhale. I remind myself that this is just kitchenware.
But . . . my feet remain glued to the ground.
Drastic measures are needed.
“IT’S JUST KITCHENWARE!” I yell into the floor, the sound echoing off the ceiling and the white octagon tiles.
And now I just go.
Grab the pot.
Put it back on the burner.
Stare at the pot.
A watched pot never boils.
Also, a watched pot never magically puts itself in the center of the floor.
That’s my new motto.
I stand there for about three thousand years, watching the water in the pot taking forever to boil.
But I am watching this damn pot.
I better keep myself company.
“Well, what are you going to watch tonight, Daffodil? . . . I don’t know, self, I was thinking about watching the Silk Road series or maybe that other flat-earther doc or maybe the new Ancient Aliens . . . Yes, self, that sounds like a plan! . . . Yes, self, indeed. Ancient Aliens it is!”
Have I had this conversation before? This is all seeming strangely familiar.
Finally, the watched-pot water boils, in defiance of the phrase, and the unhealthy ramen noodle dinner begins.
I could stay here in the kitchen that obviously has some sort of pot portal going on . . . or I could just eat this upstairs, while I contemplate the pyramids, the Hopi people, and the Aztecs. As if this is any real choice. Why would I care about a mysteriously guided pot when there are such bigger things to blow my mind. Like the fact that, I mean, maybe those pyramids are actually some sort of electromagnetic energy device. Mind blown.
I put the strange-minded pot into the “don’t think about” folder on my brain desktop. Then I click over to it, drag it into the trash, and empty the trash right there.
Done.
See?
Easy as pie.
I’m just about to happily, calmly, peacefully march up the stairs when I hear the crisp sound of an English accent cutting through the air.
“Hallo? Toodle-oo!”
To my infinite annoyance, Penelope is already in the hallway, heading into the kitchen.
I want to tell her to actually knock, or, say, maybe give me a little notice, but she is already barreling past any such qualms.
“Oh dear, when was the last time you had a proper meal, dear girl?”
“Um . . .”
“Quite right. Here, let’s see what we have here in these cupboards. . . .”
“Uh, you know I was just—”
“A knife, I need a knife . . .” she mutters to herself, looking around.
“It seems like, perhaps maybe you could—”
“Found it!” She turns to me now, chipper, which would be fine except for the fact that she now has a rather large butcher knife in her hand.
“Um, to be honest, I’m really not that—”
“Hungry?” she says, still chipper.
But there is something strange in her smile. Something sideways and falling off to the left. A bright smile, but uncertain.
And the butcher knife. In her hand. Gleaming.