I’d the fright of my life, at about 10 o’clock, last night. In a haze of postprandial languor, I sat on the chair, reading an e-book. For a moment, I took my eyes off the luminescent page and stared around the living room.
For some time preceding that juncture, I’d been looking into the near distance—at the texture of the beige carpet, the striations on the floorboards, the edges of the sofa—as if searching for traces of a movement, a very subtle, noiseless movement.
A sense of an activity may have perhaps registered on my peripheral vision. But I don’t know quite what it was, really. There was nothing detectable, of course. Still, I continued to feel uneasy.
When, at last, a flicker of a motion was palpable, it turned out to be on my person. My person.
To my utter dread, a small, dirty-brown roach was steadily creeping up my black T-shirt, nearly camouflaged by it.