Sound of wings tapping

The moth flickers around the ceiling light. I lie naked on my bed, the warm air leaving my skin damp, sweat glistening like tiny jewels on my arms and flat belly. Cam’s asleep, snoring. I watch the moth, my heartbeat quickening, ready to fling myself out of bed if it flies low.

My phobia of fluttering insects often keeps me up at the night. Always has. I’m fearful of the sound of wings tapping on the glass; the repeating shapes they make on the window loom large on my side of the room. My mind conjures monsters, killers, hounds, all ready to break inside, attack.

How did this one get into my home, into my bedroom? Must be Cam’s fault; he was working in the garden until dusk, the screen door wide open and warm humid air filtering through the kitchen. Once the gardening was complete, he walked in, all dirty boots and grubby hands, took me right there at the sink, interrupted my task of peeling potatoes for a hungry, desperate root. My skin pricks with delight, remembering how I gripped the bench while he thrust himself deeper and harder, one hand resting on the small of my back. I feel that tingle between my legs. If it weren’t for Mr Flutter, I’d wake Cam and ride him right now.

Damn the bloody moth.

Furious at myself and this crippling fear, keeping a close watch on Mr Flutter, I slide from under the covers, head towards the kitchen to find the Mortein. This is going to be massive; the fallout hopefully a message to its friends to never enter my home again.

Under the kitchen sink, I find my armoury. I stomp back to the room and spray. Its wings turn white, heavy. Cam wakes, spluttering.

‘What the fuck?’ His hand over his eyes, coughing. He’s mad, I can tell.

‘Sorry,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Moth.’

‘Do you have to kill me too?’

Mr Flutter begins its slow, death dance, leaving pale brown marks on the walls and furniture.

‘Done now.’

Cam looks at me. Laughs at me: naked, holding a can of fly spray. He winks. I’m forgiven. Now he’s awake, I might as well ask.

‘How about another root, hon?’ I ask, chucking the Mortein aside and leaping back into bed.

Photo by LucasVphotos on Unsplash