Freaked out? Of course, I freaked out. I mean, what would you do? You wake up thirsty in the middle of the night and you don’t want to get up because you’re tired and you’re naked and it’ll be cold, so cold, if you throw off your blankets, and besides, if you get a drink now, you might need to pee later. But your mouth, it’s so dry, and the voice in your head, the one you call sense, becomes louder than your lazy-ass whisper. So, you take a deep breath and jump out of bed—you were always the one who dove into the unheated pool. You throw on his sweats, but you can’t find your shoes, so you walk barefoot to your new boyfriend’s kitchen.

You stub your toe on the way because it’s three a.m., Bill’s place is pitch black, and last night he didn’t push his chair back under the table. And you say fuck oh so softly because you don’t want to wake him, but you really must turn on the light.

The second you do, there’s this mad rush of roaches, black throwbacks, they scurry around. You can hear a click clack, and you think that’s their nails—do roaches have nails? But you don’t have the time to consider. One giant roach has crawled up your big toe, claimed it as a hill of his own. You can’t help but scream like you’re being murdered.

What’s going on! Bill your new boyfriend says. You can tell he’s annoyed as he says it. That’s just Stuey and Peppy and Charlotte and Beth. Sweet little things, don’t you think? And you swallow once, hard, and notice his eyes, they suddenly seem somewhat beady. Well, you answer him back, if you’re all such good friends, why are they running for cover? They just haven’t met you! They’ll come around. Don’t worry. Those cuties, they always do. You can’t help but worry and get stuck on the always and wonder if this is your cue. But sensitive guys are so hard to come by, so you suck it up and go back to bed.

You think fuck the dry mouth and what am I doing, and what’s with this guy and the bugs. You feel all creepy-crawly, but he says shhh, don’t be silly. I’ve trained them to stay in the kitchen. They might talk to you, too, if you give it a week, he says before falling asleep. But you can’t wait a week, you were never that patient, and won’t start any time soon.

You tiptoe down the hallway, still not wearing shoes, you like to conquer your demons head on. You turn on the light, hold your breath in and watch, but none of them, not one of them, scatter. They just wait in straight lines, row upon row, standing tall on their spindly hind legs. Behind armored shells, like Game of Thrones extras, they brandish their swords—wild antennae.

Stuey, the commander in chief of this army of vermin, the same Stuey who’d crawled onto your toe. He takes one huge step forward and, looking quite tough, positions himself right up to face you. So, you kneel towards the floor, if nothing else, you’re respectful, you want to look him full on, in the eye. This is war, Stuey says, and you pretty nearly faint, you can’t believe you’ve just heard a roach speak. It’s either you or us, and we don’t take no prisoners. We don’t share Billy with no sad, lost Dick or Jane.

You’re not feeling all that sad or particularly lost and you wonder if roaches can read. That’s a double negative you say but get what he means and find yourself stuck in a bind. You’re kind of a Buddhist, don’t want to do harm. You move spiders from inside to outside. But Stuey’s issued a challenge and you promised on New Year’s that you’d meet any test of your will. Stuey’s left you no choice, and besides, here he comes, he’s charging right up your body. His short legs move fast, up your thigh, gut, and chest. He’s a half inch away from your chin. So you say sorry dude and you swat him down hard and instinctively squash him—like a bug. There’s this audible crack, his shell cuts through your foot, his insides, they mix with your blood.

You hand it to those roaches, they don’t blink or retreat, even with the loss of their leader. They knock pots off the stove, the bread off the counter, they come at you left, right and center. This is true love, you feel it deep in your bones. They risk their lives, just to hang onto their Billy. Is he their friend or their lover, who knows? Who cares? Whatever, you’ve never known such devotion.

Truce please, you shout out, as you grab a slice of Wonder from the loaf that fell onto the floor. You wave it around, a white flag of surrender, and the battle, it’s over and done. The roaches back off, put Stuey on their shoulders and carry him to their lair behind the fridge. You wash off your foot, slip back to the bedroom, into your clothes and your shoes. As you walk home alone, the streets, they seem different. Or maybe it’s you, you don’t know. But you listen for voices, the voices of roaches, and will forever be mindful where you step.

Diane Gottlieb’s writing appears in Atlas and Alice, Bending Genres, Barrelhouse, The Rumpus, Brevity blog, 100-Word Story, and Hippocampus, among other literary journals, as well as in several anthologies. She is the winner of Tiferet’s 2021 Writing Contest in nonfiction and is Prose/CNF Editor of Emerge Literary Journal. You can find her at https://dianegottlieb.com and on Twitter @DianeGotAuthor.