This morning I was just doing my thing, following my normal routine to the minute, as I sometimes do. I went into the bathroom to dry and straighten my hair at 6:15 AM, a podcast playing on my phone set on the windowsill next to sink.
The moment turned very horror movie-like. I turned around quickly and saw nothing. Looked at the ceiling, the floor, nothing. I decided to check behind the shower curtain. That’s where all the murderers and kidnappers and monsters go, if we’re being realistic.
But my hand never got within a few inches of the shower curtain when it came around the fabric, wrapping its little legs around the edge. All eight of them, thin and black and shining. It was as if it waved, happy to be sharing this moment.
We had a stare down, he and I. I couldn’t take him down while he was there, there was too much room for error, too many possibilities where he could escape during the squishing process. He could jump at my face and pluck out my eyes and eat them or make them into little web balls to show all his friends or something.
I decided to let him win the staring contest. I slowly turned around and went about straightening my hair, watching him through the mirror. He disappeared back into the shower. Everyone needs to clean themselves I suppose. Sadly he doesn’t know it takes at least an hour for the water to heat up again. So who really loses here?
At 6:25 AM I exit the bathroom to continue on with my routine. If my old foe was like his buddies, he would attempt to exit the bathroom at some point and I would be waiting for him with my army of shoes and paper towels and tissues and toilet paper. Whatever it took I would be ready for the attack.
At 7:15 AM I went to survey the battlegrounds, and there he was, alone in the tile field under the heat register. He didn’t see me this time. I quietly shuffled over and contemplated tissues or toilet paper. He would probably hear the tissues being pulled from the box and retreat. Toilet paper it was. I took just enough to get the job done. Half the roll would do.
It’s kind of sad really. He never saw it coming. I heard very dramatic music in my head as it happened though. Something with a lot of drums, and lots of bass, maybe a haunting flute solo right before his insides splattered against the wall.
His remains were flushed down the toilet. A proper burial, he fought valiantly, or basically not at all.
At 7:25 AM I put on my 3 layers of outdoor garments. At 7:30 AM I left for work. A victor. Stephanie of House Chihuahua, the first of her name, daughter of Connie and John of Michigan, wife of Marc. Mother of Chihuahua and Bunny.
*Insert Game of Thrones theme song here.*