“There’s a lady-bug on your shoulder.”
There was a bug on his shoulder, quickly replaced by yellow-green guts. I hate it when he does that, kill bugs. Unless they are cockroaches. My morality doesn’t extend to cockroaches. It’s the translucent brown shell and the noise of their wings that makes me hate them, and their apparent affinity with my body temperature.
He never kills cockroaches; just the insects that seem harmless to me. The springy worms in the garden after rain, caterpillars that contorted which what way as the made their ways over branches, tiny ants making their way to their tiny ant-hill. Harmless. Dead in vain. Released from their pathetic food-foraging routines.
I always wonder where insects go when they die. Is there an insect heaven? A crawlers’ paradise? They shouldn’t be allowed in our heaven. I mean, what kind of a paradise would it be if we couldn’t be free of cockroaches even there. How would it be any different from my bathroom after midnight?
I uttered a short prayer for the lady-bug who was no more. May its soul rest in peace and may it zip and fly in bug-heaven. Amen.
We make an odd pair; him with his arsenal of insect killing weapons and me with my prayers and awkward burials. Except when it comes to cockroaches. There are no weapons and prayers then.
He does it on purpose. It’s one of his ways of showing me that he has the upper hand. He can kill cockroaches, but he won’t. It is the bone of contention between us. I live in fear of him flinging cockroaches at me; it is a recurring nightmare.