Bugs


Yesterday, for dinner, we grilled—shish-kabobs and veggie dogs. It was the first time we had used the grill in almost two years, so it needed a thorough going-over. The grill had become a hotel for spiders and stinkbugs, and my no-kill-policy-husband kept flicking them into the shrubs as he cleaned.

I also subscribe to the no-kill-policy, but it is nice to have help. Inside the house, I leave spiders if I find them, or encourage the creepier ones out the window; Brian is usually the one called upon to catch all manner of other insects in Tupperware and take them outside. Except for ants. We both hate ants, and relish their demise. Our son subscribes to the “I hate all bugs and am blessed with parents who will get them out of my sight” policy. I wonder what he’ll do when he’s out on his own.

As I was typing this story, my son walked in and said, so sweetly, “Mom, can I get your help with something?” He led me to his room and pointed at a stink bug lurking on his ceiling. He said, “I will never be able to sleep with that guy up there!” This time I was the one who went and got the Tupperware.  Be free, stinkbug! Be free! My son had better find a nature loving life-partner, or at least someone braver than he is.

Anyway, watching my husband flick the bugs off the grill reminded me of a story from almost 20 years ago: Brian and I had just started dating.  We were working at the same soulless investment bank, and we were having lunch in the cafeteria with a hundred other people, when a little brown mouse ran across the blue carpet. The crowd in the lunchroom panicked. It was like people doing the wave at a sporting event: each person stood up as the mouse ran past. Choruses of, “Kill it! Kill it” erupted. Traders were trying to stomp on it, or hit it with trays. The mouse ran for its life. My husband--then boyfriend--stepped out of the crowd and caught the mouse in a coffee cup. He took it out on the terrace and released it, much to everyone’s awe.

I remember feeling so amazed at that moment: that he could be so kind; so gentle; that the mouse practically ran right to him, like he was the Pied Piper; that he stood up to a bunch of murderous frat-boys to save a field mouse.  It was the first time I knew, for sure, that he was special. I almost told him then that I loved him, but I was too shy, and I didn’t want him to think I was weird.

So, tonight, nearly twenty years later, I thought I would tell him. I said, “I was thinking about the time you caught the mouse at UBS.”
He said, “I remember that.”
I said, “I loved you that day.”
He gave me a sly smile and said, “I know.”

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