Still fighting, the war isn't over. Based on a true story (no really, they're still in my kitchen!) Rated mature for brief expletives.
Tissue in one hand, I stare at every black dot on the kitchen counter.
“Come out. I dare you.”
If anything moves – except that annoying, buzzing fly – I move in for the kill. One! Two! My hand speeds up, tissue crumples, my fingers pinch the annoyance(s) caught within. Four! Seven. Eleven... Eighteen? I lost count, but they're still crawling.
Insults fly out of my mouth faster than I can spot and kill, spot and kill. My temper flares.
“How is this fair!? You're invading MY house! I don't go around invading yours! Get out of my dishes, b*tch!”
It's not like the tiny crawlers understand me, or my insults, but they do freak out when yelled at. Their methodical lines instantly scramble as they switch to super speed and zoom across the sink or cupboards, their antennas whirling around as if screaming mayday, mayday!
“You have the WHOLE outside world! Why do you invade MINE!?” Seriously. Spot and kill, spot and kill.
Stillness ensues. What's that? Nope, just some burn mark. Fine. Now I have to figure out where they're coming from.
Pepper in one hand, dish soap in the other, I stand still. I squint at the walls, and every orifice. A dash of pepper there, a tad of dish soap here (vertically), a pinch of pepper to plug that hole, and a zest more dish soap. There, that should do it.
I go on with my life, but notice that every time a hair falls on my arm, or my pants tickles my leg, I rub it off quick and strong. Every shiver becomes an army of legs, any itch a tiny black dot. I dread the kitchen, for every journey there means another battle.
This antvasion must stop before I lose the war.