Thursday 9th September
Day 141
The pussy cat and I lose the afternoon to sleep while the sun blazes on our front door which is propped open, warning squares of paper taped to the step say “WET PAINT”.
When we leave the house this evening we find a tiny black insect glued to the yellow gloss. Maybe it was a creature with bee pretensions hoping our door was a giant sunflower or a sticky pollen factory. I think it’s dead, but it’s fluttering, with only one leg, fragile as a hair, mired in the paint. Gently, my husband flicks it free with the tip of his penknife. It struggles into the still warm air, all legs intact. To live another day or even a minute.
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