Paul Villapiano, 21 February 2015
Shorty
There was no motion from it. So I breathed on it, the antennas twitched. Twice more I breathed on it and then tried to flip it over with the same slipper. However, the said slipper was already back on my foot. I flinched at the feeling of tiny legs and antennas scrambling across my right toes and sent Shorty smack back against the wall.
It landed upside down again and flailed its legs in fear.
There was an old wine bottle covering the floor drain next to it, which I picked up and brought over. It slipped off the bottle the first time but clung to the label on its second try.
After I replaced the bottle over the drain, Shorty scrambled for the kitchen door and frantically searched for a crack to squeeze into but was far too big to fit between the millimeter gaps between the door jam and faux wood door.
And then it stopped and looked up at me. I knelt down and saw that one of the antenna was half as long as it used to be a couple of minutes ago.
After a good eye to stare, I told it, “Go. I know you can either smell or taste what’s on the other side, but you can’t run off to the dining room or living room. Go. I don’t need any trouble. Go.” I then stood to shoo it away with a few waves of my hand until it hid in the shadows.
I grabbed my last beer from the fridge, closed up the kitchen door, sat down with a book and read while I was frustrated with myself for getting more worked up than I had wanted to be before dozing off.
A few days later, it appeared in my kitchen one last time. It was on top of the cans in the recycling bucket: standing still and searching about before it darted down into the half crushed cans. I smiled at myself while thinking, “Shorty likes beer more than I do.”
