The ones that sneak up on you — the gutter yellowjackets chasing your ankles when you’re going out to get the mail, the lazy hornet waiting on the glass back door, a black and spindly guard dog that we’re too scared to tap and bother. The spiders under everything on the tile, staying low and cool and running for nowhere when you move the laundry, the box of wrapping ribbon, the stinking trash: only the brown ones, the house ones. The longlegses hanging in the corners where the walls meet, bouncing in the air condition wake. The ants all missing, all underground somewhere in the heat, and me knowing it and glad.

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