Mosaics: a Thriller
“A spit of black on his pristine walls.
He puts a hand on the doorframe, then slowly slides his fingers closer, without touching it. He can’t get himself to touch the hairy thing.
He stares, pondering.
A dark shell of exoskeleton, with a head, a thorax, two antennae encased inside. And soft, whispery wings waiting to come out.
He could squash it in one swift movement. The thought of the yellowish blotch it would leave on the white wall disgusts him, though.
“Hector! Close the damn door, it’s blowing a draft.”
He moves his hand away, closes the door. It’ll be a few more days before the moth ecloses, he muses, taking his shoes off. He dusts off the tip of his loafers, sprays them, places them in their box, and then the box on the top shelf of the shoe rack by the entrance. He retrieves his slippers.
The pupa can stay one more day.
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