Pesticide

There’s a dead bug behind the bathroom door.

Normally I wouldn’t care, but this isn’t an ordinary bug. It likes to watch people as they come inside, sidle up to the sink, and wash their hands. The sick bastard can’t take a joke, won’t move away or answer when you yell at him to stop. He just goes on watching. Staring.

Oh, you use foam soap, he’ll say. Aren’t you fancy.

Or maybe he’ll roll his eyes as you come in with white smears across your hand, rubbing together your forefinger and thumb like you were holding a piece of gum. Again, he’ll say. Didn’t you just wash that stuff off just minutes ago?

Don’t even bother trying to debate that funky stain on your shirt, that one that looks like a can of red spray paint exploded as you held it. He won’t believe a thing you say. Not a single word.

That’s right, just wash your hands. Let all that red stuff drain down the sink. Don’t forget the foam soap. Oh, so fancy. So fucking fancy.

But that’s alright. You probably know I’m lying about the bug.

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