Page 6 of The Cyrano Situation
Before I could talk myself out of it, I drafted a reply.
"The best endings," I wrote, channeling what I imagined Cyril might say, "are the ones that feel both inevitable and surprising. Where all the pieces have been laid out, but you don't see the pattern until the final page. I prefer endings that respect the reader's intelligence—no neat bows on complex problems, but enough resolution to feel the journey was worthwhile. Ishiguro understands this beautifully; 'A Pale View of Hills' haunted me for weeks after I finished it."
I read it over twice, then hit send before I could second-guess myself.
This was definitely crossing a line. Multiple lines. Possibly an entire highway of lines.
But as I closed the laptop and carried my empty plate to the kitchen, I couldn't help feeling a spark of excitement. Cyril deserved someone who would ask him thoughtful questions about books and appreciate his structured approach to life. Someone who might, occasionally, convince him to try a lavender latte or take fifteen steps to the bathroom instead of fourteen.
Whether that someone was Jules28 remained to be seen. But at least now there was a possibility.
And possibilities, I've always believed, are what make life interesting.
Chapter Three - Distraction
Cyril
AsHartnoted,thereare precisely fourteen steps from my bed to the bathroom. This is a fact I've verified every morning for four years, a constant in a world of variables. So when I woke on Thursday morning and counted fifteen steps, I knew something was fundamentally wrong.
I stood in the bathroom doorway, confused and slightly alarmed. Had I miscounted? Had I taken smaller steps than usual? Had the fundamental geography of my apartment somehow shifted overnight?
The logical part of my brain, which is to say, most of it, knew the answer was simple: I had been distracted. My routine, my carefully constructed routine, had been disrupted by thoughts of Hart Fielding and his ridiculous dating coach proposal.
I showered for four minutes and twelve seconds (twenty-seven seconds longer than usual), put on a navy cardigan instead of the gray one I'd laid out the night before, and nearly forgot mywatch on the bedside table. By the time I left my apartment, I was running six minutes behind schedule.
The morning only deteriorated from there. The line at my usual coffee cart was longer than normal, delaying me another four minutes. A tourist stopped me to ask directions, costing me two more minutes. And when I finally reached the office at 8:12 an entire twelve minutes late, I found Hart waiting by the elevator, two coffee cups in hand.
"Morning, sunshine!" he called, entirely too cheerful for the hour. "I brought reinforcements." He held out one of the cups. "Black coffee. No lavender, I promise."
I should have refused on principle. But I was twelve minutes behind schedule, hadn't had my usual coffee, and was feeling oddly off-kilter. I accepted the cup with a nod that I hoped conveyed both gratitude and disapproval.
"Rough morning?" Hart asked as we stepped into the elevator together.
"I miscounted my steps," I said, then immediately regretted it. Why was I telling him this?
But Hart just nodded as if this made perfect sense. "Mercury's in retrograde. Throws everything off."
"Mercury's orbital position has nothing to do with my morning routine."
"Maybe not directly." The elevator doors opened, and Hart held them with one hand. "But cosmic chaos trickles down, you know? Affects us all in weird ways."
I stepped out, shaking my head. "That's pseudoscientific nonsense."
"Probably," Hart agreed cheerfully. "But it's a more interesting explanation than 'I was distracted,' isn't it?"
Before I could respond, he was walking away, lifting his coffee cup in a small salute. "Have a good day, Cyril. Try not to count anything!"
I watched him go, irritation and something else—something warmer—mingling in my chest. Then I checked my watch (8:15), took a sip of the coffee (perfectly acceptable, though I'd never admit it), and headed to my office.
The morning passed in a blur of manuscripts and editorial notes. At 12:30, I unwrapped my sandwich (turkey on whole grain, lettuce, mustard) and opened my e-reader to continue "The Devotion of Suspect X." I'd just reached a pivotal scene when my office door swung open without a knock. Again.
Hart, of course. No one else had such a blatant disregard for basic office etiquette.
"Working lunch?" he asked, dropping into the chair across from me. Today's takeout container smelled of garlic and basil. "What are you reading?"
"Higashino," I said, marking my place. "And yes, I'm working."
"The Japanese mystery guy? Any good?"
