It started as a prickle on the back of my neck. The kitchen was empty. The house was silent. But the feeling was undeniable.
I froze mid-chew, a slice of cold pepperoni pizza halfway to my mouth. I slowly lowered my hand.
I felt like someone was watching me.
I spun around. No one there. I squinted at the ceiling corners. Was my house bugged? Had the government finally taken an interest in my midnight snacking habits?
I checked the vents. I peered through the metal slats, looking for the glint of a lens. Nothing but dust bunnies.
I checked the smoke detectors. I dragged a chair over to inspect the blinking red light. Was it blinking in a pattern? Was it Morse code?
Nothing.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “You’re losing it. It’s just guilt. Just eat the pizza.”
I decided I needed a drink to wash down the paranoia. I walked to the refrigerator, took a deep breath, and yanked the door open.
I screamed.
There were eyes. Everywhere. Dozens of them. Staring into my soul.
The mustard bottle looked surprised. The jar of pickles looked suspicious. The Tupperware container of week-old spaghetti looked absolutely shocked.
Then I realized my toddler had put googly eyes on everything in the fridge.
My heart rate slowly returned to normal as I took in the plastic panopticon my son had created. But the relief was short-lived. I looked at the top shelf, and there was the ringleader.
The milk jug was judging me for eating the leftover pizza.
It sat there with its mismatched, wobbly eyes, looking down at the greasy slice in my hand with supreme disappointment. I felt shamed. I slowly closed the door, decided I wasn’t thirsty after all, and walked away, knowing that in this house, even the condiments have an opinion on my diet.
