I squirm into position cheeks evenly distributed pasted gently to white plastic my twirly tucked and aimed feet planted on the cold green tile.
Down to my right next to a trickle of leaking water is a cockroach. I call him Jervis as he has no discernable method to relay his name. He lie upon his winged back a silent witness to my solitary ritual. Having little in common I remain silent, awkward tension waxing. I cannot perform my… duties. “How is the foraging?” Idiot. Roaches don’t forage, do they? Scavenge perhaps, but what a dirty sounding word. It was out there. Too late to apologize. Silence. I did not intend offense to categorize to stereotype. I have friends that are roaches. Perhaps he is sleeping. Idiot. Roaches don’t sleep, do they? Like sharks? Perhaps a submissive gesture then? After all, I am the Alpha male. I reach down to tickle Jervis on the belly, thorax, what have you, and his left leg twitches in protest. I have been presumptuous, assuming. I retract, stare forward. I was only trying to be friendly. “Are you injured, sir?” I yell, self-conscious of my own ire. “Excuse me?” he retorts. I am shocked, recalcitrant. The person in the next stall leaves abruptly. I do not believe they cleaned themselves. It was not Jervis who spoke. My embarrassment is acute, like the pains in my abdomen. I stand quickly. “GOOD DAY TO YOU, SIR!” I scream, and leave.
Some stereotypes are true, I suppose. Goddamn roaches.