There's this cockroach that hangs out on 95th, in front of the new bank they're building there, under a streetlamp. The first time I saw it I thought it was a round, flat-bottomed stone with prickly black shoots growing out of it. After a couple of seconds of squinting, I decided it wasn't. Just a huge bloody cockroach in the middle of the street. I jumped back and put my hands over my mouth.

Every two days I'll walk home from the coffeehouse or the train and I'll see it sitting there. Not twitchy or buzzing or unsheathing wings and flying into my face or whatever, just sitting still. Grinning maybe-- can insects grin? Who the fuck knows, I don't even think I want to. It doesn't move when I get near it either, like it's totally unafraid. So whenever I see it, I step on it. Its shell cracks along the thorax, its antennae snap, and it starts oozing this gross yellow jelly, still motionless. I walk away from it, feeling like I've done a good deed now that no one has to look at it anymore.

But you know what? It keeps coming back. Every time I'm there I crush it under my shoe, and the next time it's there, perfectly fucking still. It pissed me off at first, obviously. It knows I want to kill it, it's well aware. But it keeps showing up in the same spot. The fucking nerve. Like it's making fun of me, I dunno. Now I guess I don't hate it anymore, though I still think it's revolting. It's sort of neat how I can almost set my watch from the coffeehouse window when I see it skitter out from cracks in the bank's foundation. 8h53. On the fucking dot every time. It's good to be able to rely on something. And I've gotta say, I admire persistence like that.

Shades of metamorphosis!   Déjà Vu and reincarnation!  Very enjoyable story.

Creepy, but goooood, O.  I can't even pinpoint exactly what it is, the reason, but I keep thinking about this story and what seems so simple and gross is not simple at all, nor gross, but complex, and revealing [about my own crazed nature].

regards,
lynn