Cockroach

“I saved something for you” she says. “Yeah?” he says, knowing by the tone of her voice that it’s not the last of yesterday’s blueberry muffins, that it’s not the last of the roasted maple almonds that came in the Xmas gift bag from the bank, that it’s not the last piece of bacon that she spent most of the morning hiding from the kids. She walks to the sink, pulls open the cupboard door to the cupboard underneath, the one you open if you need a fresh dish towel, soap for the dishwasher, if you need to dispose of a banana peel into the organic bin full of apple stems and orange peels, the tops of strawberries, macaroni left too long in the fridge, lettuce that somehow made its way into the freezer. “It’s in here”. “Ok” he says, wondering if the exposed sink pipes had started leaking again, if she was going to show him a little puddle of water that has no discernible source but will keep appearing after they clean it up, that will cost them 150 in labour and 35 in parts to fix. She steps away from the open cupboard to give him room. “I don’t think it’s a cockroach” she says.