Grey Skies Turn Blue

I was in the middle of a nap of great consequence. It was the kind of nap where you flatten yourself into the exact dimensions of the uppermost ledge of the bookshelf, so the humans wonder if you’ve actually dissolved into the furniture. That’s when the storm began.

Michael was pacing. He had worn a path between the window and the sofa, sighing like someone who just got bad news from his doctor. His hair stuck up at angles from too many nervous hands raking through it. I’ve seen less theatrics from squirrels falling out of trees.

Marie, on the other hand, was at the kitchen table, stirring her tea with well practiced serenity. She radiated calm. It was the kind of calm that makes you think of glaciers: majestic, unmoving, and hiding a dangerous amount of ice beneath the surface.

And me? I, Earl Grey, lord of the bookshelf, presiding judge of household disputes, was watching. You’d think after eight years of their togetherness, they’d have learned to resolve things with a few well placed headbutts and naps in the sun. But no, they had to dramatize it. Humans always do.

“Marie,” Michael began. His voice cracked like a door hinge that had never known oil.

“Yes, my love?” she replied. Sweet. Musical. Too sweet. Too musical. I flexed my claws. Trouble was clearly in the air.

Michael sat down across from her. His elbows hovered above the table, as though contact with the surface might damn him further. “We need to talk.”

Splendid, I thought. The four most perilous words in the human language. I should fetch me some popcorn.

He drew in a breath, held it, let it out. Drew in another. Truly, he was going to suffocate on his own hesitation.

Finally he blurted out: “I know about him.”

Marie blinked. “About whom?”

Michael leaned forward, eyes haunted. “The other man. The one you’ve been sneaking around with.”

I nearly fell off the bookshelf. Sneaking around! As if Marie could sneak past me. I have ears that can detect a single kibble dropped in the kitchen at three in the morning. If she had been sneaking anywhere, I would have filed a full report.

Marie stared, then burst into laughter so loudly it almost made the spoon in her teacup clatter.

Michael’s face collapsed with tortured emotions. Which, of course, made her laugh harder.

Now, I had known about the “other man” for weeks. He’d visited twice. The smell of him lingered afterward: latex from balloons, sugar from frosting, faint tang of glue from tape. An event planner, if my nose ever smelled one. His socks had pineapples on them, for God’s sake.

But humans never consult the expert. No, they stumble blindly into disaster after disaster, convinced their little brains are enough to navigate the great big world around them.

I flicked my tail so hard I knocked a picture frame to the floor. It hit the carpet with a muffled crack. Neither of them noticed. A shame. My commentary deserved applause, no doubt.

Allow me to take you on a brief detour to demonstrate my superior knowledge.

It was three weeks ago when Marie began her clandestine operations. I had been patrolling the hallway, tail high, when I noticed her slip into the spare bedroom with a large shopping bag. I thought it was suspicious. Highly suspicious.

Naturally, I infiltrated. Quiet as a shadow (well, quiet enough, given the infernal bell on my collar), I crept to the half closed door and nudged it open with a practiced paw.

Inside, she was whispering on the phone:

“Yes, Thomas, I got the balloons. He’ll love them. No, I’m hiding them in the closet until the big night. Yes, keep the guest list under twenty-five, otherwise he’ll panic.”

Guest list. Balloons. Whispering. If I were Michael, I’d have fainted from jealousy on the spot.

I, however, had my priorities straight: finding out what was in the shopping bag.

I leapt in, tearing through tissue paper with the efficiency of a trained operative. Streamers, confetti poppers, a banner that said “Happy Birthday, Michael!” in glittering letters, evidence enough to close the case.

I batted the banner with my right paw until glitter stuck to my whiskers, then sank my teeth into one of the balloons. It popped thunderously. Marie shrieked, dropped the phone, and scooped me up.

“Oh, Earl Grey!” she gasped, laughing in relief. “You’re going to spoil the surprise!”

Spoil the surprise? Me? As if secrecy applies to me. I spoil everything. Shoes. Curtains. Sleep schedules. It’s my super power, my raison d'etre, if you will.

Later that night, while she hid more of the evidence in the closet, I sat smugly in the hallway. I already knew the end of this story. I was simply waiting for the humans to catch up.

Back to the present moment:

“Michael,” Marie said at last, choking down her laughter, “you’re jealous of Thomas, seriously?”

Michael winced, as if the name itself were acid. “So you admit it!”

“Admit what? That I’ve been conspiring with him? Yes. But not like that.”

Michael’s mouth worked like a fish stranded on a dock. “You expect me to believe nothing is going on?”

“Yes,” she interrupted, eyes flashing with the glow of anger now. Her glacier calm was fracturing, and oh, how glorious it was to watch. “I do expect you to believe me. Because you’ve known me, loved me, and shared life with me for eight years. Because you know my heart.”

Humans. Always dragging the heart into things. Try explaining trust in terms of food bowls, that would be something anyone could understand. If Marie ever betrayed him, I assure you, my dinner would be late. And that simply wouldn’t stand.

Marie set her tea spoon down with a decisive click. “Michael, Thomas and I have been planning something. For you. A surprise birthday party.”

The silence that followed was exquisite. Even the refrigerator hummed back on, seemingly trying to help hide the embarrassed look on Michael’s face.

Michael blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, closed. Finally: “A… party?”

“Yes. A party.” She leaned back, folding her arms. “With your friends, your family, your beloved little band from college that hasn’t had a rehearsal or gig in over a decade. I wanted to give you something special, Michael. Not suspicion.”

Now here was Michael, finally catching up to what I, a superior creature, had deduced weeks ago.

“Oh God,” he groaned, face in hands. “Marie, I, I thought…”

“That I was cheating?” she spat out, gentler now than the moment before.

“I didn’t want to. I swear I didn’t. But the late nights, the phone calls, the whispers.”

“Yes, my whispering about whether to order lemon or chocolate cake must have been devastating,” she said dryly.

I meowed loudly. (Translation: Go with tuna. Always tuna.)

Ignored again. The freaking story of my life.

Michael reached across the table, hands trembling. “I was terrified of losing you. The thought of it alone was so painful.” His voice cracked again, and this time it wasn’t theatrical. It was raw.

Marie’s eyes softened, the glacier melting. “Then you should have asked. You should have trusted me enough to ask.”

“I trust you more than anyone,” he said. “But my emotions were out of control.”

“Yes, they got the better of you.” She squeezed his fingers. “Michael, love is not the absence of fear. It’s the courage to be honest when you’re afraid.”

I purred loudly. Finally, some decent perspective. They could have cut to this hours ago instead of wasting time with false accusations.

But humans need rituals. Which meant, inevitably, the kiss.

Marie stood, leaned across, pressed her lips to his. He kissed back with the desperation of a man being reprieved from the gallows.

I turned away politely. Not out of modesty, mind you. I’ve licked myself in public with zero shame. But because their mouth mashing was simply undignified. A firm headbutt on the shin would have sufficed.

They moved to the couch, entwined, whispering apologies and plans. I hopped onto Michael’s lap, pressing my full, regal weight down. He stroked my chin absently, murmuring, “You knew all along, didn’t you, Earl Grey?”

Of course I knew. I always know.

I purred, smug and steady. Let him think I was wise, their silent guardian. Let him believe I’d guided them back together with feline omniscience.

In truth, I stayed quiet because their chaos is my theater. Their arguments are my entertainment. Their reconciliations, my guarantee that the food bowl will be refilled on schedule.

All was well again.

Until tomorrow. When Marie discovers the shredded thirty-five balloon under the bed. Then, I assure you, Armageddon will return.

And I’ll be watching. From the bookshelf.