I LATCHED IT. I swear on Princess Consuela’s life I latched it. Beyoncé is a genius, Peter. She’s figured out the mechanism. I watched her do it. She stood on Solange and used her paw as a lever. Your kittens are staging a prison break and you need to respect their intelligence.
— B
Please don’t name the kittens.
— P
Too late. Beyoncé, Solange, Kelly, LeToya, and LaTavia. They already respond to their names. LeToya is the shy one. LaTavia bites.
— B
Naming creates attachment. They’re goingto new homes.
— P
Attachment is not a disease, Peter. Attachment is a GIFT.
— B
I added a sparkle emoji to the last one. He didn’t respond to that note, but he also didn’t take it down.
The notes had become the primary mode of communication between us, which was both absurd and, if I was being honest with myself, sort of perfect for our particular dynamic. Peter didn’t do well with spontaneous conversation. I’d learned that quickly. If I caught him in the kitchen and launched into a story about my shift, he’d listen politely, but I could see him calculating the earliest possible exit. His answers were monosyllabic, his body language oriented toward whichever doorway would get him back to his room fastest, and the whole interaction had the warm intimacy of a job interview.
But on paper, something loosened.
His notes were still controlled, still precise, still signed with that clipped “— P” that I had started to find weirdly endearing; but they were also, if you read them carefully, funny.
The man was funny.
It was a dry, deadpan, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of funny, buried under layers of formality and a straight face, but it was there.
And I was developing an embarrassing talent for finding it.
Mia was the first to notice.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
It was a Friday night, and Barbacks was packed. I was behind the bar making a round of spicy margaritas for a bachelorette party that had arrived wearing matching sashes and the kind of energy that suggested they intended to make this evening a story they’d tell for decades—the parts they could recall on Saturday, at least. Mia was perched on her usual stool, nursing wine, her phone out, doing something I assumed was social media related because this was Mia.
“I’m doing what?”
“Talking about the Post-its.”
“I’m not talking about the Post-its.” I scowled and actually poured margarita mix on my hand. I never spilled. Mia’s eyes widened in disbelief. Then her shit-eating grin returned.
“You’ve been talking about the Post-its for nine minutes. I timed it.”
“I was telling you about the kitten escape. That’s a kitten story, not a Post-it story.”
“You spent the first three minutes on the kitten escape and the last six on what he wrote about it. You described his handwriting as ‘unreasonably precise.’You used the word ‘unreasonably,’ dear one. That isn’t even in the range of your vocabulary.”
“Itisunreasonably precise, and that is a most acceptable word which I most clearly possess in my, um, vocal arsenal or whatever.” Jacks now waited with a large serving tray, ready to run the drinks to the overly festive females. I slid them toward him without taking my glare off Mia. “He writes on Post-it notes like he’s addressing a letter to the Queen. Who has penmanship like that on a two-inch square of yellow paper stuck to a refrigerator? It’s absurd.”
“You find his handwriting absurd?”
“I find his handwritingaggressivelyabsurd. It’s also aggressively good. Nobody should be that good at writing on small paper. It’s suspicious. I’m probably living with a serial killer. I may need your thoughts and prayers.”
Mia spat white wine across the counter as she set her phone down and looked at me with the expression she reserved for moments when she was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. After a quick, stabilizing breath, she asked, “Benji, do you hear yourself?”
