the inquisitive one

The inquisitive one’s personality, unbeknownst to the inquisitive one, according to my sources, has changed since the pandemic hit the United States.

(My sources are mainly butterflies.)

According to the butterflies who live in the inquisitive one’s house, and who occasionally escape out of doors to bring me secret reports, the inquisitive one used to be neat and tidy.

Everything in its place.

But no more.

Dishes

One butterfly, who calls herself Pooky, told me that the i.o. used to be the type of person who washed a dish immediately after using it.

But this behavior has gone completely the other way since the pandemic started.

“The inquisitive one is a total slob now,” Pooky explained. “Actually, it’s a very good thing. The i.o. leaves half-full glasses of juice everywhere, sometimes even spilling them and making sloppy messes. Thank goodness—it gives us butterflies plenty to feed upon. I shudder to think about the state of starvation my friends and I might be in, were the inquisitive one to amend these wayward ways!”

I told Pooky I was grateful that she and her friends have plenty to eat this holiday season.

Laundry

I have a human source, as well. His name is David H. Evans. He is friends with the inquisitive one.


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David H. Evans told me that he and the inquisitive one had made plans to have lunch at a local restaurant. Because of the pandemic, they planned to eat outside.

It was a chilly day—not below freezing, but close to it. The wind was strong and cold.

When the inquisitive one appeared from around a corner, David was already seated at an outdoor table. Everything was flapping around.

“Aren’t you cold?!” David gasped, upon seeing what the inquisitive one was wearing.

“I’m’m’m’m o’o’o’k’ay’ay,” said the i.o., through chattering teeth. “Do’o’o’o’es this’is estab’lish’ish’ment ha’ave h’h’h’hot tea’ea’ea?”

“Here, take my jacket!” exclaimed Mr. Evans.

The i.o. refused, out of pride.

“Act’ct’ually’ly, I nee’eed to go’o’o!” shouted the i.o., and ran off toward the nearest bus stop.

David H. Evans told me that, after this, he had a delicious meal of pasta e fagioli.

A butterfly, coincidentally named Pasta E. Fagioli, told me that, later that day, the i.o. burst through the door, burrowed into a gigantic pile of dirty laundry that was taking up the entire hallway, and didn’t leave that burrow for two and a quarter hours.

The inquisitive one, Pasta E. Fagioli told me, emerged gagging, and holding the nose.

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