Shaky Allies

by Gauraa Shekhar

7 A.M.

7.03 AM  

There’s a spider trailing the bottom of the bathtub. It’s small and spindly, and on some sort of secret mission completely invisible to me. I’m reading on the toilet when I see it the first time—abstract fuzz blurring across the edge of the tub, swiftly approaching my direction—and then I am scared. I am scared because I don’t want to be the kind of person who crushes spiders. I am also scared because I don’t want to be the kind who ensembles elaborate contraptions to escort them out the window. I double-tap my knuckles against the porcelain enamel, hoping a false vibration of danger! will stop Spider in its tracks. I am weak.

7.08 AM 

I collect half-emptied Diet Coke cans from various nooks in the living room—the coffee table, the island, the stickered red media cabinet—and transfer the abandoned remnants into a tall beer glass, which I set next to the laptop on the desk. This is our ongoing ritual. Elliot likes his soda cold and fizzy. I prefer mine lukewarm and flat. This way, nothing goes to waste. I place the emptied cans into the recycling. 

7.12 AM 

I refresh my inbox. I’m always refreshing my inbox. There’s nothing today except an email from Pillsbury, asking me to guess what lemony snack they’re making. How did I end up on the mailing list for Pillsbury?

7.20 AM 

I return to my book and decide, today. Today is going to be the day I finish it. The book is short and crisp, and has been on my bedside table for two weeks. I am reading a short story about a war reporter who is too old to attend wars. At some point, I allow the smell of my own breath to interrupt me. This is, apparently, all it takes. A cold draft, direct sunlight—and sometimes—the smell of my own breath. I think about my sleeping schedule, my eating schedule, how both have converged into one: waking up at 2 AM, pecking at leathery leftovers, then returning to bed.  

7.22 AM 

The bathroom is quiet but for the buzz of my Quip. When a friend from college visited us last December, she joked that it looked like we’d both been targeted by the same ads on Instagram. It was true. The toothbrush, the coral razor, the matching coral holder for the razor—all sourced from click-through Instagram ads. I am a person who falls for anything with a pink tax rebate, I think. I turn to the shower caddy to evaluate the rest of my consumer behavior, and I see Spider again. Spider is static and unmoving. I had forgotten all about Spider, and soon I will choose to forget about Spider again. Though I hope Spider is OK, all things considered.

7.28 AM 

A text from my mother. She says her blood pressure is rising. Her prescriptions have run out. She will have to visit her doctor at the clinic. I ask her to get her prescription emailed. Or telephoned. Or something. I send her links to several articles, all titled some variation of “It is Risky Right Now to Get Non-Coronavirus Healthcare.”  

7.35 AM 

I sit down at the table to write. Neighbors carrying grocery bags have decided to pause for a long conversation directly in front of our living room window. Their voices are muffled under their masks. I wish for them to take their banter elsewhere; it is only 7.35 AM, I am tempted to say. When is a better time to write without interruption? But they talk for long enough that I soften: I learn that one of them has two sons, and that one of those sons is a teacher in Connecticut. The other just found out that his wife is pregnant. I also learn that while there is no toilet paper on the shelves yet, paper towels are making a steady comeback. 

7.41 AM 

I return to the book in search of a distraction from the original distraction and find that the retired war reporter has turned to fiction. The fiction she writes is bad. She fills her room with fresh flowers and searches for a pill stowed away just for the occasion. I can’t say much more without giving away the ending. 

7.56 AM 

I need to shower, I think. It would be nice to shower without having to confront the moral dilemma of Spider. When Elliot wakes up, I’ll teeter around the subject of Spider in vague euphemisms. Can you please take care of Spider, I’ll say, meaning, very specifically: could you please ensemble an elaborate contraption to escort Spider to the bathroom window? Elliot will return an understanding nod. He’ll say, don’t worry, I took care of it already, except Spider will still be there, at the bottom of the tub. This time, there’ll be a spool of toilet paper staged at the ledge.

“Toilet paper?”

“It’s a ladder for him. To climb out!”

“A ladder?”

“Yeah, just a shred of toilet paper so he can—”

“I’m sorry, but do you want a spider in our bathroom?”

“Spiders are our shaky allies, in the fight against insect kind.” 

7.59 AM

I smudge the apartment with sage.