The difference between the night and the day is the clouds lose their spirits. An absence of light is not inherently dark. And where we all meet under the sun is where the truth is evasive. Where we all meet under the sun, the indication of one’s character is not synonymous with the degree of one’s honesty. We all have our own truths. This does not detract from the authenticity of the truth in its entirety.

My truth is that I have a hobby. It’s messy and it’s rather cumbersome, but it’s my passion. I’ve dreamt of fulfilling my truth for years, but others make it quite difficult to accomplish. The bodies have failed to add up like I’d imagined. I moved to focusing on the neighbor’s cat to pass the time. He would be missed, but the tragedy of a stray feline was far from paranormal. My morning run would take place at 4:30 in the morning, and I’d make my way back to the street by 5:00. That allows for approximately eleven minutes to mindlessly chatter with the bird fanatic at the end of the street. By 5:11, I could slither my way toward Mr. Whiskers’s house and arrive at the painted brick mailbox by 5:12. This allows three minutes for me to wander toward the bushes that crept on my property line. I could slip out of my hoodie and toss it on the cat. I’d scoop it up and paralyze it in the bundled grip. This would mean I’d make my way to my porch by 5:30, promptly when Ms. Worcester would creep between her front doors and click her tongue to summon Mr. Whiskers.

I’d bellow, “Good morning, you lovely lady. What are today’s headlines?”

Punctual.

Routine.

Ordinary.

“Oh, nothing short of liberal propaganda. They’re infiltrating the papers. It’s a curse to be literate in this day.”

Ah, yes, a tangent.

Punctual.

I establish alibi. I’m not conservative. “You sure do deliver insightful analysis! I don’t expect any less!”

Too nice.

Back off.

Don’t give her a day to remember.

“You charm me so, young man. Jonathan, have you seen Mr. Whiskers?”

The truth?

Mr. Whiskers’s truth, or my truth?

You’re right.
“No, I have not… should I have?” I did my best to introduce a degree of concern in my tone and a furrowed brow for additional effect. To the naked eye, I was rather disturbed. This disguise was worn so often that I sometimes began to wonder if I was developing human emotion. Could I possibly acquire the ability to feel? I could lose my ability to rationalize. This query was fleeting at the squeak of Ms. Worcester’s griping.

“Stupid cat. The damn thing doesn’t have a clue about much of anything.” She muttered and mumbled in her fit of aggravation, and I contemplated whether or not to open my front door to segway to a conclusion, but the moment I shifted my weight, she hollered across the lawn. The woman had been a widow for the past decade, and I’d entertained these conversations every morning since the ambulance arrived. I make a point to maintain a strict routine. I don’t change. I never will. And Ms. Worcester needed a listening ear. This was one of my many facets of charity. While obligatory, this truly was no hindrance.

“Oh, Jonathan dear, how about tea?” My brow was now furrowed for an entirely different reason. “It’s good,” I hesitated. She laughed- another one of my methods of charm. However, this was unintentional. Have I developed a sense of humor now? “You’ve never been the sharpest tool in the shed!” she giggled, “Join me for tea.” My bottom lip stiffened. I did my best to match her pitch. “Right now? I’m not sure I-”

“Nonsense. It wasn’t a question, young man. I haven’t even dressed. Meet me at noon today.” She promptly shuffled inside.

This was new.

Different.

A change.

I don’t like it. What could I do?

Mr. Whiskers was a relatively simple task. I’d forgotten how greatly the blood capacity varied from a person. I hadn’t tried my hand at the bludgeoned pets since I was a teenager. It was too easy. It didn’t do the trick. I still have the itch. Ms. Worcester, however, would be a challenge. Her invitation was nearly a dare after all, wasn’t it? She was old. Ten years had passed with our coexistence. I could just, perhaps, expedite the process.

And so I found myself, shirt steamed and tucked, shoes polished, bowtie tightened, at the edge of Ms. Worcester’s lawn. This was rash for me, but it was practically a divine gift from whatever heathen below created my tortured shell of a body. If the neighbors became suspicious of my whereabouts during the subsequent transport of supplies from my garage, I’d let it be known that I was assisting with Ms. Worcester’s repair of her window screen. I could easily tamper with it to stage a fallacy. She told me she would by lying down in her bedroom until I finished. I’d completed the repair and knocked on her door to inform her that the job was done. After numerous attempts, I’d entered her room to find her lifeless on the bed, on her right side, appearing to have clutched her left arm. I would dial 911 soon after. Yes. This was more than plausible.

Suddenly, the brassy knob ticked and the small woman stood framed by the doorway. “Ah, Jonathan, I knew you’d be early. Come on in! I don’t bite!”

Of all that I’ve ever been unsure of, I’d convinced myself that this was not included in that database. Thank God I’d been given this opportunity to further my normalized persona. Not thank God. Thank whoever. Perhaps, I am to thank for my own fate. Although, I began to feel less than grateful when the stench of mothballs detracted from the idea. The cloth on the sofa cushions told a tale of age and isolation, warn lily pad prints barely concealing corners that tugged at a wooden frame. “Jonathan, lemon or sugar?” This was her life. She made every movement without urgency, free of concern. She didn’t have social responsibilities, didn’t have financial accountability, didn’t have expectations. Her schedule was entirely voluntary. This was evident in the pace of her movement and the length of her words. It was nearly an unmeasurable tempo. “Neither, thank you.” Her hands trembled, and the ceramic rattled against the saucer. What would be the polite standard of mannerisms? “Ms. Worcester, allow me.” I rushed to the countertop and took both cups. Several years waiting at the diner on the corner of 7th and Baskin gave me the skills for this very moment- to contribute to my natural charm. As I went to be seated, Ms. Worcester nervously expressed discomfort. “Oh, honey, would you mind if I sat there? My arthritic spine needs a break.” I wasn’t so intent on daffodils over gold-rimmed violets that I took it upon myself to shift the cups.

We sipped.

Discussed.

Sipped.

Discussed.

Nothing too personal. I related to various aspects of her recollections with a mirage of an early life. I’d taken note of popular cinema, especially those that had belonged to unrequited romance. I told her I’d developed a more reserved attitude due to the transient years of my father serving in the Air Force. I described a bond with a mother I’ve never known.

“Jonathan? Do you need to lie down?”

I noticed sweat pooling in my palms. I coughed, and I grabbed my thigh with my right hand, regaining balance and keeping my head upright. The cough returned. A furious inferno rumbled from my lungs, and I gradually brought my gaze to meet Ms. Worcester’s.

She smiled.

Not the inquisitive snicker that offers warmth and concern. Not the blank, confused and wandering upturn of the corners of her mouth. Not the frustrated, facetious smirk that playfully chastises a toddler or a misbehaving puppy. This was a devilish grin. This was relief and utter satisfaction. This was almost excitement. She admired the twitch of my left fist, clenching in unison with the breath that I held to keep from wailing in agony. She leaned in to study my pupils, and I grunted. I began to drool, and I projected saliva onto the coffee table with every seething exhale. “Wha… wha… wh-”

“No, no. Don’t speak. Relax.”

She giggled.

“Wha-”

I struggled for an occasional gasp.

“Oh, honey, listen. We are the very same. I knew it from the moment your moving truck hit the driveway gravel.”

I attempted to launch myself toward the end of the sofa.

“Jonathan, stop it. Let me speak. I don’t have so much time, dear. I knew the day Mr. Whiskers was gone, the idea of tallying my body would be all too tempting. So, I invited you over. For tea. I figured I would omit the part of the invitation that delineated my special ingredient. Your tea, my dear, contained a form of cyanide. Therefore, I’m sure you have realized that you’ve consumed a dangerous, lethal substance and have now fallen victim to cyanide poisoning.”

My body convulsed and lurched toward her. My chin slammed into the oak, and the table held my head in a resting position atop the cream lace runner.

“Goodness, I neglected the punchline. You will notice symptoms including, but not limited to, headache, dizziness, nausea, and… what was the other?”

I winced, and she scratched her head in an animated manner likely less for provocation of thought and more for pure torture. “Ah, yes, the constriction of airways. I might have said I didn’t bite, but I never said I didn’t kill.”