When the popping starts to slow, I hit the button to stop the microwave and yank the door open.
Popcorn steam plumes out, but I fan it away and lift the bag by the corner.
It’s Friday. I’ve logged off from work for the day. I’ve put my hair up and I’ve got my not-for-public little cotton shorts on, along with the worn T-shirt I got at the Grand Canyon years ago. This is my definition of comfort, and my plans consist of becoming one with the couch while I catch up on the newest season of my favorite true crime series. Because what’s more relaxing than murder?
Pinching the bag tight so I don’t drop it, I carry it over to the dining table, where I have my big red plastic bowl ready.
I’ve burned myself more than once opening these papery bags, so I carefully grab opposite corners with my fingertips and start to pull gently.
Then a loud pounding on the front door startles me so badly I jump and accidentally rip the bag in two.
Popcorn showers around me.
Dropping my grip with one hand, I slap my palm over my heart.
“What the hell?”
I stand for a second, wondering if I really heard someone knocking, when it sounds again.
I set the bag on the table amid the scattered popcorn and head toward the door.
“Cassandra!” My name booms through the closed door.
Wait.
Is that…?
A fist pounds against the wood again, and it shakes in its frame.
“Cassandra, open the door.”
My heart keeps galloping but for a new reason.
Is that Hans?
And did he call me Cassandra?
Popcorn crunches under my slippers as I hurry to the door.
