Close Encounter of a Strange Kind

I awoke in the near dark of just-before-dawn, a fierce thirst turning my tongue to blotting paper.

I put reluctant feet into felt mules and shrugged on my worn robe. I made my shuffling way out of the bedroom, eyes fast adjusting to the faint grey glow.

Screwing my eyes nearly shut, I switched on the light. I blinked my way to the kitchen and opened the door.

In the sudden assault of radiance that flooded the kitchen, I saw a cockroach scurrying away towards the cabinets under the sink.

“Eeww … how disgusting,” I thought.

The cockroach stopped short, its chitinous body almost humped by the sudden halt. Its antennae were whipping back and forth as I heard a squeaky voice in my mind.

“Excuse me! Was it you who switched on that disgusting brilliance! Have you no consideration for others?”

“Huh? I can talk to cockroaches?” No sooner was the thought formulated, when there was an irritable reply.

“Of course you can, you silly woman; I just never bothered to reply before.”

I dissected the insect with stern gaze; it was nearly upright and I could make out the triangular head and gleaming obsidian eyes.

It shuffled forward a few millimeters before backing again; it seemed to be nerving itself up to ask something.

“Well, now that we are conversing, may I please request something?”

“Uh-huh” It was apparent that a reasonable attitude would take me further than an upraised broom.

“Well…over the years we have learned to identify those little granules and pills you scatter as repellant; we never go anywhere near those. But it restricts our movements.”

“So?”

“So could you please just leave that one cabinet free, the one where you keep your kitchen waste?”

“B-but…”, I stammered in bewilderment “I keep that waste-bin covered.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised how we can squeeze through the tiniest gaps.”

“Ummmm…Okay. But the rest of the house is off-limits buddy; I’ll swab the floors with a chemical deadly to cockroaches.” The last was an empty threat; but what did cockroaches know about insecticides?

The antennae quivered and the wings swung out from the body in repeated flapping motions, in obvious excitement at this concession.

“Done deal, pardner.”

My obvious surprise at the correct use of this slang term must have been evident in protruding eyes and slack jaw.

“What?”

“You have a nifty turn of phrase,” I tried flattery, rather than insinuate that I found its knowledge surprising.

“We catch late night TV sometimes.” The little creature threw the answer casually at me before scuttling across the floor to its previously determined destination.

I shook my head in disbelief as I opened the fridge to take out a bottle of water.

As I raised my head and took a couple of icy gulps, I wondered if it had been part of some nightmare.

But I never saw a cockroach in my house again. Not even when I watched late night westerns.


Word Count: 496


For Night Girl's Summer Nights Day Six entry: Flash fiction with the prompt: You can talk to ________ (insert animal).