06.23.05
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We were told that that is what happens when palmetto bugs die. They flail for hours, but if righted will simply turn themselves over again to wait for death. Suddenly it was strange to watch this dying thing, knowing that it would go on forever like this until the little legs could no longer go on pumping and the little lungs burst from exhaustion.
The metro ride was better, quiet. The creaking wheels and sway rocked us all the way into the city with its big lights and important people, the smell of dirt mingled with expensive perfume. Every one of them silent, watching the play of the shadows on the walls, the vacant space two feet above your head.
Two seats down I watched the dance. She was wearing bright sequined pink and her shining nails flashed before her face, hovering over her chest. He, in blue, disagreed, shook his curls, fluttered his long nervous hands. I could hear the screaming in my head, each movement was a sound and they grew louder as the ride went on. She sounded like a paper cut just at the moment it drew blood, he like a thin warbling violin.
Then they too were silent as she threw up her palms, sighed softly. The speakers cam to life and breathed our destinations, warning us of pick pockets. She smiled at the space above his head.
I remember, eventually it got to be too much. The incessant rocking and the thought of the bug�s death became nauseating and something had to be done. Someone decided to turn it over, to see what would happen. They said it would only turn over again.
They were right, he righted it once and it only flipped itself over again. Then, he flipped it through the air into the green bushes beside the shop. The poor bug only clung to a branch for a while, as if wonder what had happened, what it had been doing on its back for the past few hours. It began to climb until, lost in the leaves, we couldn�t see it anymore.
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