Time is slowing down.
Rather, my perception of time is slowing down.
Yesterday, I thought I was just cranky. That it merely felt as if the stop lights were taking too long to change. That it was my impatience that made 25-mile-an-hour speed limits seem a ridiculous imposition.
This morning my kids both told me to speak more slowly. Only they drawled as they did so. Each word ludicrously drawn out.
Even then, I thought it was a prank. Until I turned on the kitchen faucet, and the water emerged like a strange, gleaming amoeba, droplets falling ever so lazily.
I told the kids I had a headache. Went back to bed. Thought about phoning the doctor. Thought about Dr Gupta ordering a psychiatric evaluation.
By now, even my body seemed clumsy. My breathing sluggish, my limbs lumbering. The kids shouted their too-slow goodbyes as they headed off to school.
I emailed my boss to say I was sick. Saw the image on the computer screen flicker nauseatingly as it redrew from the top downward.
I spent what seemed like hours trying to compose a note to my boys, my fingers crawling across the keyboard, the screen updating in waves.
The cat sauntered in while I was still laboring over the note. It took me a moment to realize she was moving at normal speed, her tail swishing elegantly.
The cat eyed me, said, “We’ve upgraded you. You’ll be working for us now.”
Now I have a new problem. I don’t know whether to follow their instructions. Or what they’ll do to me if I refuse.
Why would cats want me to buy lithium batteries, quadcopters, and potassium iodide?
What are they planning?