The first time you spot sugar ants scurrying across your kitchen counter, you marvel at pairs stopping to confer like police cars in a parking lot. You’re sorry you don’t know more about them, spend a half hour on Wikipedia. You’re amazed by their scouting prowess, their intrinsic mission to contribute to a whole, their cooperation in surviving as a colony. Your mind does a dance not unlike the tarantella of the spiders you catch and release to the yard.
Soon, a siege, a swarm. You become cross and conflicted, not your favorite state of mind. When the thousandth ant becomes the millionth, you roll the word “smite” around on your tongue. You switch from sprinkling cinnamon to placing bait traps. You flush the fastest ants down the sink, cross your fingers, assure them it’s a waterpark and they’re on the slide. Each time you spit out a “Sorry!”—a lone word yearning for the warmth of a personal pronoun, then make the sign of the cross.
Soon, every speck is an insect. You get new spectacles, buy more sponges. It’s tedious keeping the kitchen so clean. How can you find time to write? A solitary grain of anything attracts masses of ants; you feel like the Pope at Easter, waving your hand as you send them swishing down the drain. “Sorry” you say, over and over. You relinquish your title of “Ms. Cherish All Life,” toss your tiara and sash in the wastebasket. You strike a match, toss it in the trash, leave the house. You feel you’ve crossed a line, wonder who you are now.
About:
Mikki Aronoff lives in New Mexico, where she writes tiny stories and advocates for animals. She has stories in Best Microfiction 2024, Best Small Fictions 2024 and upcoming in Best Small Fictions 2025 and Best Microfictions 2025.
