Less dancing this time

It’s late. The brousse volunteers are all in town, all in various stages of snoring tossing sleeping in my courtyard. I do a last sweep of the yard: pick up drained coke cans, straighten bidons of slowly stagnating water, collect scratched DVDs, hide my laptop (a.k.a. home theater system) from the inevitable evening sandstorm, flick out the lights. I pad softly around my unconscious friends to wash up and finally sleep myself.

Entering my room, I slip off my sandals and forego the light. The bulb takes so long to sputter and spark into fluorescence and my toothbrush is in its familiar Tupperware container, easy to find in the dark.

Scuttle.

My ears hone in and recognize the noise immediately. Scuttle.

I reach for the last place I remember throwing a flashlight. Scuttle. Scorpion.

Fumble for the switch, swing the beam towards scuttle. Scorpion. There he is, tiny, golden, quick. I might need help. “Will?” I call out to my region mate, thinking him still marginally awake. “Um, I have a scorpion in my room.”

Will peeks his head in just as I empty a bucket and slam it over my pincered friend. “You get him?”

“Yeah, under the bucket. Didn’t kill him yet,” I admit.

“Want me to smash him?” he asks, removing his shoe.

Still feeling residual guilt from my previous tango with a scorpion, I turn my head and nod. Bucket up, shoe down, scorpion expired. Considerably less dancing than last time.

Thing is, I had just recently stopped meticulously scanning my floor for arachnids. Just stopped worrying if my light-less bedroom forays would end with a stinger in my toe. Just forgot why I finally had that fluorescent bulb replaced. With renewed awareness (read: fear), I wonder if scorpion sightings could ever become routine. Already, I’ve gone from dancing and surprised yelps to buckets and unwavering heart rates. For now, I’ll measure my calendar with rare events: scorpions and thunderstorms.