COCKTAILS OF INFIDELITY

Part 2

After feasting on the feces of man inside a toilet, the cockroach says to himself.

“enough is enough with the pungent smell. I’d rather get some fresh air”

So, he slithers from the crevices of the walls. He walks like he owns every nautical of the alley. He is alone. He wears a crown of ego that perfectly befits him like a magic wand to a wizard whistling in prejudice.

On the far edge of the road he notices two ants arguing.

“I ain’t hunting today. I did all the hunt by myself the previous days”

“father said it should be teamwork. We need to do this together bro”

He ignores them.

The arguments fall to some sort of a hissing whisper. The ants notice him as they mumble in soft tones. Then one of the ant flees off. The other one approaches the cockroach blocking his path. They come face to face with each other. At this instance, I’m trying to force some words on the cockroach like:

“you! Tiny piece of shit! Gerrout of my way or imma trample you”

The ant might choose to mischievously retort with an evil laugh,

“come on boy! Let’s gerrit over with”

But, No! They are not conversing. Their faces grin. Tooth tighten. Fists clench. Muscles stretch. It’s a war cry. The cockroach moves towards the ant. The ant backpedals few strides back, careful not to be trapped on the wall behind him. For few minutes, they tug along. I am anticipating karate moves here.
But, they ain’t doing any shit! I am gibbously tired of watching them. For wasting my time, I feel like stepping on them. Kill them both. Mutilate their bodies. Throw them to the dogs to feast on them. Have their families mourn them with no tears, and bury them with no burial ceremony. They ain’t following my script. I wanna lit hell on them.

What do they take me for?
Some sort of a ninja who lucklessly never made it on top producing animations? In their world, I’m God. I decide who speaks and who doesn’t. Who dies and who lives. I just know which life to take!

All these anger brews within me. It is not the tiny creatures I rage about. They provide me with muse. At the dinner table I sit staring at my wife who gave birth 3 days ago; her breasts now sag.
                  ****************************

Its early in the morning. On the table lies a simple breakfast; white tea and black coffee. (my wife doesn’t do coffee. I don’t do tea. Makes me wonder how we met). There’s bread laced with peanut butter. My son, whom I haven’t figured out what name to bestow him, has an abundant flow of natural milk outflowing from his mom’s tits.  the talk with his mother regarding his name ended fruitlessly the moment she suggested the name of her ex campus lover. His face complements everything though.
Sipping coffee from my mug, I notice wet patches forming circles just on the tip of her gown.

“Must be excessive flow of milk” I presume.

She wears the same night dress she has always worn since we got married. Its yellowish, long and barely attractive. It never turns me on. To make matters worse, she never puts on the dresses I usually get for her. Especially the one that has a fly out running from her nape to her thighs. That doesn’t matter. She has lost sense of beauty over time. The passion. The romance that once shone bright in her contemplative eyes are no more. Maybe I am to be blamed. Or maybe what once was, never was. Somehow in her I can’t see the woman I claimed to love on often occasions.

She is the quiet type. Only speaks when spoken to. Or yet she has grown to be cold to me. Maybe something about me she can’t fathom anymore. Maybe she has lost the same interest in me too. But who am I to worry? It’s a fair play. Our marriage has never hit rock bottom. The situation here doesn’t call for a third party or a divine intervention of some sort. Its normal to couples. It’s the same as the middle life crisis. Constantly you battle with your inner self. Questioning everything you once stood for. Falling in the arms of distrusts and narcissism. It’s like you feel different taste of colors. You can’t dance to the same music you used to dance to. The air you breathe is collated with pungent fumes; each time you breathe it grabs your lungs on its grips; it pumps air out of your breath; it chokes you. You suffocate. Its change you heed. There is no way out but there lies an underground passage. Even that ain’t as safe. Such is our marriage.

The little baby fiddles on to his mother’s breast. Suckling her tits. Which makes them sag the most. 9months, perhaps a year I haven’t been inside of her. She's starved me but not to death. Moments like this I does unleash myself. Find anything to quench my thirst. Usually it’s my bitch. My whore. Now the mug I’m holding I’m afraid might break in my hands.

“Hey Hun, you heading to work today?” My wife asks

“Lucy, it’s on a Monday, of course I’m heading to work.” I respond. “anything you needed?”

“nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice. It’s been long…. You know…”
                       ********************

Aha! Just when I almost gave up. The ant who fled, from nowhere I did not notice, came back with an army. They've got the cockroach surrounded. Now the cockroach tugs in rounds, tying to watch his back. Tension cooks like hot cassava, in a pot it boils. It’s my granny doing the cook. The ants move closer. The cockroach feels trapped. The ants pounce on him like puppies onto their mom's breasts. The struggle begins. He fights them off with hind legs. He kicks them five meters away. They're too many. They keep coming back. The tussle continues.

It’s been a while. He feels tired. They feel tired. But they keep poking him. I want to say,
"cut! On to the next scene! Skip this part!"
Remember I’m their God, I choose who dies and who suffices. These tiny creatures won't listen to me. I can't save any soul. The cockroach has to realize that this ain't any script. It’s real. He got to fight some more. My phone rings. Its unknown number calling. I choose to ignore it.

My wife asks if I’m going to pick it up. Maybe when it rings again.
The tussle has gone bizarrely out of control. The ants, stuck on the cockroach, have just ripped the legs off the cockroach. Blood oozes out. He has been defeated. They're struggling on his nape. Trying to slice his head. Blood mixes with sand, it’s a hue of war.
The phone rings again. I pick it up.

"hello"

"hello, it's me. I'm pregnant. And I’ve tested HIV positive"

Shocked. I don’t respond. I don’t hang up. I stay mute.

"honey, is everything okay!?" my wife asks.

“an emergency at work… nothing biggie”

The ants have won the untimely battle. Tonight, they shall feast. The cockroach lies on the ground unmoved like dead elephant. The ants like a village mob with machetes takes a slice of the meat. They follow each other in a linear line leading them to the comfort of their hole. Singing war songs. Humming victory songs.

This time. I am the cockroach. I am no one’s God anymore.    
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