Sleepless and staring at the ceiling, I was unable to move from exhaustion infused to bone level from working in shade temps of 114 earlier in the day.
Catholic anesthesia came to mind and I knew I probably wouldn't make the 40 Hail Marys' mark before being startled awake by the clock radio's volume set at 'deafening' for 4AM, so I started.
I was still as dead, hands interlaced under my head on the pillow, and might have already knocked out a couple dozen of the Rosary's staples.
Just then, my chin tickled and only my eyeballs moved to see two antennae of the biggest, boldest, brownest, fastest, death-wishing cockroach the Arizona-Sonoran desert had ever produced.
I planned my move, sprang diving behind the roach toward the open closet floor flinging every object out behind me, until that roach met the afterlife of my prayers with the crunchy crack of my saddle oxford.
Were there trophy walls for bugs, he'd have been on it as he was a mountable keeper, but the dutiful son in me [her words] "shoulda...coulda" remembered to throw out that baggie before my mom came over to stock my freezer, the only day I ever heard her sail the F-bomb and at a commendably terrified volume and pitch, I might add.
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