Today Is April 31st

“Today is April 31.”

That’s what the note on my refrigerator said, written in my own handwriting, which was concerning for several reasons. First, because April does not have 31 days. Second, because I don’t usually leave myself notes unless they involve groceries or reminders to stop buying groceries. And third, because the handwriting was definitely mine, but the tone was not. It had the confidence of someone who knew what they were talking about, which is not a quality I typically bring to calendar-related matters.

I stared at the note while eating a bowl of cereal that tasted like it had been designed by someone who hated joy. The milk was fine, the cereal was fine, but together they formed a union that felt like a punishment. I was halfway through the bowl when I realized the note was not the only strange thing in my kitchen.

My salt shaker was missing.

Now, I know that doesn’t sound like the beginning of a mystery. People lose things all the time. But I am not one of those people. I am the sort of person who alphabetizes spices and once labeled a drawer “Miscellaneous” and then immediately panicked because the label was too vague. I do not lose salt shakers. They are the one constant in my life, the North Star of my culinary universe.

I checked the counter, the table, the cabinet, the refrigerator (twice), and even the freezer, because sometimes I put things in there when I’m distracted or trying to cool down emotionally. No salt shaker.

I returned to the note.

“Today is April 31.”

It felt like a clue, but a clue to what? A prank? A warning? A sign that I was finally losing my mind in a way that would be described as “quirky” in a memoir but “concerning” in real life?

I decided to call my sister, who is the sort of person who enjoys solving problems that don’t belong to her.

“April doesn’t have 31 days,” she said immediately, as if I had called to ask whether water was wet.

“I know that,” I said. “But apparently I didn’t know that last night.”

“Did you write it while drunk?”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“Were you sleepwalking?”

“I don’t sleepwalk.”

“Maybe you do and you just don’t know it.”

This was not helpful. My sister has a talent for taking a small concern and inflating it into a full-blown crisis, like a balloon animal made of anxiety.

“Also,” I added, “my salt shaker is missing.”

There was a pause.

“Like… stolen?”

“I don’t know. It’s just gone.”

“Do you think the note and the salt shaker are connected?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Well,” she said, “this is how it starts.”

“How what starts?”

“Your descent into eccentricity. First it’s a missing salt shaker, then it’s a missing Tuesday, and before you know it you’re living in a lighthouse writing letters to the editor about the decline of modern manners.”

I hung up.

I decided to retrace my steps from the night before. Unfortunately, the night before had been aggressively uneventful. I had eaten dinner (pasta), watched a documentary about competitive ironing (real, apparently), and gone to bed at a time that would make a toddler proud. Nothing about that routine suggested a salt shaker heist.

I checked the trash, just in case I had thrown it away by accident. No salt shaker. I checked the laundry hamper, because sometimes I carry things around and forget to put them down. No salt shaker. I checked the bathroom, because I once found a spoon in there and still don’t know how it got there. No salt shaker.

Finally, I checked the living room, and that’s when I found the second note.

It was on the coffee table, tucked under the remote control.

“Don’t trust the pepper.”

I sat down slowly, as if the couch might also have a note taped to it. The pepper shaker sat innocently on the table, looking exactly as pepper shakers have looked since the beginning of time. I picked it up and shook it experimentally. Pepper came out. Nothing unusual.

But the note had the same handwriting as the first one. My handwriting. Except I had no memory of writing it, and I certainly had no reason to distrust pepper. Pepper had never wronged me. Pepper had been a loyal companion through many bland meals.

I opened the pepper shaker.

Inside was salt.

I dropped it like it had bitten me.

Someone—possibly me—had switched the salt and pepper. But why? What kind of person does that? A prankster? A saboteur? A culinary anarchist?

I checked the kitchen again, and that’s when I noticed the third note, taped to the inside of the cabinet door.

“You’re getting close.”

Close to what? A nervous breakdown? A treasure? A very small, very stupid conspiracy?

I sat on the floor and tried to think like a detective. Detectives always sit on the floor in movies when they’re thinking, usually surrounded by photographs and string. I didn’t have string, but I did have a growing sense of dread and a pepper shaker full of salt.

I decided to check the rest of the apartment for notes. If someone was leaving clues, they might have left more. I searched the bedroom (nothing), the bathroom (nothing), the closet (one sock I thought I’d lost but no notes), and finally the hallway.

There, taped to the front door, was the fourth note.

“Check the mailbox.”

I opened the door cautiously, half expecting a raccoon holding a ransom note. The hallway was empty. I walked down to the mailbox, feeling like I was participating in a scavenger hunt designed by someone who had never actually been on a scavenger hunt.

Inside my mailbox was the salt shaker.

And another note.

“Congratulations. You solved it.”

I stared at the shaker, then at the note, then at the shaker again. I felt like I had just completed a puzzle only to discover the picture was of a potato.

Solved what? What had I solved? The mystery of where my salt shaker was? The mystery of why I had apparently written myself a series of cryptic notes? The mystery of why I was the sort of person who would follow those notes instead of immediately calling a therapist?

I took everything back upstairs and spread the notes out on the table like evidence. They looked like the ramblings of someone who had watched too many detective shows and not enough instructional videos on how to be a functional adult.

I tried to imagine myself writing them. Was I sleepwalking? Was I bored? Was this some kind of subconscious cry for help? Or worse—was this my idea of fun?

I picked up the final note again.

“Congratulations. You solved it.”

Solved what?

Then I noticed something on the back. A faint smudge. I rubbed it with my thumb. It smelled like pepper.

And suddenly, it clicked.

I hadn’t written the notes.

My neighbor had.

My neighbor, who had borrowed my salt shaker two days earlier and promised to return it “soon.” My neighbor, who fancied himself a comedian despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. My neighbor, who once replaced all the labels on his roommate’s canned goods “for the bit.”

I marched next door and knocked.

He opened the door wearing pajama pants and the expression of someone who had been caught doing exactly what he had done.

“You found the salt,” he said, grinning.

“Why,” I asked, “did you create a mystery around it?”

“I thought it would be fun.”

“For who?”

He shrugged. “Me, mostly.”

I stared at him. He stared back, unbothered.

“You know April doesn’t have 31 days, right?” I asked.

He blinked. “It doesn’t?”

I walked back to my apartment, salt shaker in hand, feeling strangely relieved. Not because the mystery was solved, but because it turned out I wasn’t losing my mind—just my patience.

Back inside, I put the salt shaker in its rightful place and threw away the notes. All except the first one. I kept that one on the fridge as a reminder.

Not of the mystery.

But of the fact that some people should never be allowed access to office supplies.

And also because, honestly, “Today is April 31” is the most confident lie I’ve ever told myself, and I kind of admire it.