Making Time for Pests Lucy Zhang
Husband likes sex. I don't, which is mildly problematic. Husband also
has a meeting from 10pm to 11pm. I'm gonna pass out, I say. When do
you ever not pass out? When do you ever not mispronounce the "ch" and
the "sh" and the "zh" in "chen" and "shen" and "zhen" which aren't the
same sound as "j"—you must be reading an English explanation. When
do I forget to wash the rice, rinse out the maggots floating to the top?
Never, although Husband doesn't believe in Never. Husband believes in
results-driven development. I prefer when my heart rests warm and fuzzy,
drowned in honeysuckle tea and dried orange peels. Don't push your
tongue so far back, the retroflex sounds demand gentle tongue
contortations, Husband says. Husband forgets to wash the dishes
because there's only one, the cutting board sticky with juice and
vegetable essence. Rolls into bed next to me, barely brushing my back,
and I wake to roll out and down to the kitchen like an abandoned
cylinder of haw flakes. The ants weigh on my mind; they come out at
dark, I'm certain. Need water? I ask from below. No response. Husband is
asleep before I've even stripped. Toss ban xia down my throat with
water, prepare for battle. I remember to rub cortisone over my itchy
nipples now that Husband isn't waiting to lick them. Time to set the
bait, stay up long enough to watch Borax spread to their colonies.
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