Everyone was a mind reader except for Jill.
When something tasted funny, her mum would say, “No it doesn’t.”
If a book seemed boring, her teacher would insist, “It definitely isn’t.”
After telling a boy she wasn’t interested, he’d usually reply, “You are really.”
Jill wasn’t certain telepathy existed, but then again, she wasn’t certain of many things. Maybe everyone really could read her mind on some deep, unconscious level.
So she ate her peas, and she read her Dickens, and she married Robert Govett.
“You must be so happy,” gushed everyone she knew.
Perhaps they weren’t mind readers after all.