A ladybug is laying on the horn of my car.
She’s gripping the broken black foam with just enough indifference that she doesn’t see the darkness beneath her at all.
Or maybe she does, and that’s what attracted her in the first place.
The dark perverse statement of internal dread represented in two horns hanging on for dear life above my doors may be exactly what excites her wings to flutter enough to remind me of their presence, but never enough for lift off.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
My gas meter rises as she reaches the tip of the horn.
Does she see me?
Is the dark a reason to run or explore?
Is it empty or tempting her for more?
She walks across the rounded edge, the easiest part to hold, and immediately makes her descent.
Now, she’s definitely watching me.
Every step is more pronounced, no matter how small.
Every step is closing in on the shaft — sorry, I’m sexualizing a ladybug.
My gas clip shudders to a close.
I’m full and ready to go.
She knows it, but her little head is heavy with indecision.
Will she fly away, leaving the horns behind or come along for the ride?
Either way, she removed just enough adhesive to make it shiver down its spine.
The dark will leave just like her, in due time.
I wasn’t bullshitting. Red instead of black foam since it was my old car.
