Bikes and Bugs
Catherine LaSota

You borrowed my bicycle. But it wasn't like when my ex-boyfriend borrowed my bicycle and I would get pissed off because he'd move the seat and he wouldn't fill the tires and it would come back to me with scratches and I was always worried that he wasn't going to lock it up properly and it would get stolen and he was so terrible with money that he'd never be able to buy me a new one.

You take good care of your things. And you were borrowing the bike for the good of us both. You were borrowing the bike to pick up good Chinese takeout, because even though we live in a neighborhood with a ton of restaurants, all the Chinese delivery places really stink and none of the cooks are from China.


Recently you have been taking your ukelele with you to work. I haven't asked why. I just watch you walk out our door with that tiny black case tucked under your arm, barely weighing you down compared to your briefcase. Even though I always worry that the worst will happen, you never get caught in the rain.


In the apartment I crush bugs when I see them. The mosquitoes are the worst. The mosquitoes are invisible until they are in my face, and then I can kill them only by smacking myself. Mosquitoes sting and you hate them, too.

You spent two hours in the middle of the night locked in the bathroom with the lone mosquito you saw in there, determined that only one of you would come out alive and how embarrassing if it were the mosquito. I slept in our bed. I woke up in the morning and had no idea you gave your night to an insect over me.

Catherine LaSota lives in New York.

Detail of art on main page courtesy of Thiago Fonseca.

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