I’ve got spectacular bladder control; so amazing I could brag about it. So understand the seriousness–how bad the situation was–when I say I was on the verge of pissing my pants.
“Just touch it,” she coaxed. A gentle smile on her face.
“Hell no,” was my immediate reply.
“It won’t hurt you. I promise.”
“Hell no.” I wasn’t going to let her change my mind.
I don’t know what it is. Why I have such an aversion to the little things. They’re not scary to look at, in fact, they’re quite pretty. But the thought of touching one, of letting it touch me, the bright pattern, the flitting wings…just…no.
The creature sat perched on the tip of her index finger, resting on her colourfully painted nail. It’s wings gently opening and closing though it didn’t take off into the air.
I wanted it to fly away. Please, just fly away.
She and I sat on a blanket in the park beneath the shade of a maple tree. Crisp leaves littered the ground around us in brilliant shades of orange and red and gold. Picnics were our thing, though she knew I hated the outdoors. We’d stretch out in the grass and read and talk, sip wine. It wasn’t my idea of fun or relaxing but just to be in her presence made it all worth it. Now though, I was rethinking a few of my life choices.
I looked at her beautiful smile, her bright eyes alight with excitement as she gazed at the thing lovingly like it was her pet. And it, the creature, oblivious and unconcerned with my enmity for it, sat contentedly cleaning its antenna.
“Here,” she coaxed, bringing the thing too close to my face.
Onto my shoulder it flew.
And there my bladder went.