Saturday, September 14, 2013

Insects Bug Me.

They loved dust.
In my mind’s eye, they would creep out every night to roll in it delightedly, legs skittering on the floor with glee.
A man could never understand the problem of a cockroach—a live cockroach—in a bedroom. A man doesn’t understand the hidden violence in a moving thing.
I’d read in a magazine that roaches love dust, so I swept every day, up and down the brand-new apartment. I hadn’t seen one yet. A Tucson miracle!
When I met him, he was wearing terrible jean cutoff shorts, white strings hanging all a kilter. It was easy to be light and loose on our date. The first kiss was nothing to write home about. We had different styles. I liked to kiss at 45 degrees. He liked to kiss straight up and down.
The second date, though, he anticipated—met me at 70 degrees. Perfect. We were on a dirty thoroughfare, sticky from Vietnamese food, his hands in my hair, mine grabbing at his t-shirt outlining just how many muscles were in that back, and how soon could I get my hands on all of them?
The sex followed quickly, and it was good. Damn good. By date seven—a blissed-out day hike—I thought we were on terra firma. Home in the city, he ran to his apartment to get clean clothes, promising to come by afterwards.
I was alone, dripping from my shower, humming to myself, ready to get laid. And there it was. Moving like an insane thing. Gleaming. Crazed.
I leapt to my bed, shouted, “Get the fuck out of my house!”
By the time he got to my apartment ten minutes later, the PTSD had bloomed magnificently: Saucers for eyes. Ragged breath. I handed him ammo: Windex; a bookbag, a boot, an umbrella. Told him to kill it. That we were sleeping at his place that night. I saw the alarm in his eyes.
He couldn’t understand. The creature on the body that shouldn’t be, with all its moving parts.
He never called again. I bought traps.

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