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.