2020 - The Rhapsodist

kitchen cabinets over the course of that decade, taunting, haunting, persisting, resisting.

Claire now knows, lying on the kitchen floor, that she should have squashed that first roach. And the quintet that came after. She should have told Gwynne, “I’m sorry, but no,” on the doorstop, as Gwynne peed in time to “Little Drummer Boy” with the door swung wide, and when Gwynne was zipping up her pants post-self pleasure. No to the bird, to the boss, to the boyfriends.

“I’m sorry, but no.” No. Squish, Crunch, Swipe, Freedom.

She tries saying it aloud, slowly—"No-o-oh." Her cheek squishes against the floor, exaggerating the feeling of her mouth giving life to the word. "No!" she shouts, then winces at the pain.

Claire’s not sure what had caused the roaches to finally disappear, but they had, or so she thought. Until today. She’d been dotting the calendar for ninety-two days of glorious, twirl-worthy, life-affirming, roach-free living that had made all parts of Claire’s life feel easier. It seemed ridiculous, but it was true.

But now, now the roach prances forth, as if intrigued by Claire bellowing “Nos” to no one, until it is eye to eye with her, its antennae tentatively scoping out the air between them.

No. Everything hurts. It is all she can do to wiggle her fingers, and so, in one deliberate movement, Claire lifts up those fingers just above the roach and slams one very obliging thumb of hers downward.

Yes. There’s a crunch and an ooze, just as she’d imagined there’d be. The roach remains are stuck to her thumb, but Claire doesn’t mind like she thought she would. Perhaps the roach is leaving its earthly body. But something is leaving Claire too, and now she is laughing. She doesn’t feel with it. Or together. Or on top of things. But this.

This is so much better.

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