Letter of Apology To My Allergic Husband

I didn’t mean to let it in. It was hanging around the door blipping against the screen and buzzing its wings. Its abdomen shone with warning stripes. Its bald face white against black. I thought I could enter the house without it following me. But it scooted in on the intake of air as I opened the door. It seemed to like the glass cabinet above the refrigerator, so I let it in there and it circled around and around a few times like a dachshund getting ready for a nap.

In fact, it was as big as a dachshund, and now it was black and shiny.

For weeks I didn’t use the Cuisinart that I kept up there. I taped the door shut and didn’t let anyone open it. I thought of ways to gas it without killing the whole family. If I just kept the door shut, maybe it would eventually die on its own.

Then one day I found him sitting at the breakfast table as if he were one of us. Human bug. His gleaming black shell reflected the light, except on top of his oblong head where a brain could be seen through a diaphanous skull. The way he held his proboscis in his front claws made him look depressed. Maybe I even pitied him. I longed to drive a screwdriver through the top of his brain.

What if that didn’t kill him, but only made him mad? What if I killed him and found I enjoyed killing? Would I want to keep killing more things in my house that drive me insane?

I am sorry I let you down. I only wanted to protect you. I can’t really know what I will do, what I have done already. Let him lie. Let his husk dry out by the door where he begged to leave after stinging you. I can still hear his claws clicking. Won’t you move again?

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