The Cockroach Weighs Heavy on His Heart

At the Mexican restaurant, Carl sees it. It's a dark oval shape on the back of a chair, about eight feet away.

His friends from high school, whom he hasn't seen for seven years, are on a roll; everyone in the booth is roaring with laughter. But Carl's laugh dissolves on its way out of his throat.

Is that a cockroach?

It could be just a shadow, or a stain.

His friends launch into another story, but Carl subtly weaves his head from side to side like a cockatiel, trying to establish the three-dimensionality of the oval.

It's 3-D.

Even as his mind reels to find another explanation, his heart knows it is a cockroach. His stomach sinks. What can he do? Ruin everyone's evening?

He'd been enjoying his burrito, but now he sees it for what it is: a soft, shredded bolus of tissue. Muscle, grease, slimy vegetable matter, unstable dairy product. He pokes at it with his fork, but stops immediately, afraid of what he'll discover. He doesn't trust the dimness in here anymore.

He sees the city for what it is too. However sleek and clean the neighborhood looks, there is biology and rot just out of sight at all times.

Suddenly, he itches.

He keeps the knowledge to himself, and it weighs heavy on his heart. Is he doing his friends a favor or a disservice?

They continue laughing. He starts to look longingly out into the summer evening.