|Not actual size except in my imagination|
As it was I looked at the bug on the ceiling and I did the next best thing. I called HIM. What I said was, "Sweetie, there's a bug on the ceiling." HIM was in the living room reading a book and drinking a glass of wine. HIM knew what I wanted but he wasn't going for it. "So?" HIM called back. "Would you...take care of it?" I called back.
You see, I knew I could appeal to HIM"s vanity. Allow me to illustrate again.
At this point the story should end. It should. It really should. HIM came back to the bedroom, killed the threatening buggie, and returned triumphantly to the living room, having proved his manhood in a incontrovertible manner. HIM would flex his biceps and leer at me saying, "The big bad bug is all taken care of, so give me some sugar, baby." End of the literary tale of a bug's woe.
But I'm still writing because my life never goes just like that. Not my life anyway.
HIM had to take a minute to decide which was best to kill the beast. Item number One - a Harlequin Presents book of approximately 180 pages. Light enough to swing adequately and best of all it had already been read by me. Item number two - a Kindle. Nice heft but electronic in nature. Does not respond well to being pummeled against insects, ceilings, or other implacable items. Item number three - a Sci Fi book by David Drake. A 500 page novel, it would certainly squash any insect within its path. But it's one of HIM's favored authors and what fan really wants to get bug intestines on one of his favored authors? What does HIM pick?
The Harlequin book.
HIM climbs up on a trunk and discovers that the flat surface of the book won't squish the bug on the ceiling because the ceiling is a popcorn ceiling, a design remnant from the 80s that lingers in this 80s house. Perplexed HIM attempts to use the end of the book in a battle ending maneuver. No can do. The insect starts crawling away. I am watching from the security of the door where it cannot leap.
So here's the spot where things get a little...weird. ("When do they NOT get weird in your house, Fat Woman?") HIM takes the book and, instead of smashing the insect into the obscurity of a distant memory, kind of flips it off the ceiling with the end of the book.
Directly at me. I could see the trajectory in my head like a smart machine calculating it. (I'm thinking like the Predator did with Arnold Schwarzenegger. "Madam, I've met the governator, and you ma'am, are no Arnold Schwarzenegger.")
And amidst all of the chicanery the stupid bleeping bug got away. It's out there, you know, watching me, waiting for it's moment.