An insect crawled out of my salad.
It was a garden centre restaurant in leafy Surrey where ladies of a certain age meet to talk about nasturtiums and put the world to rights over a skinny latte and Victoria sponge.
They didn’t say anything about the additional protein frolicking in the lightly dressed side salad.
To be fair and honest, he wasn’t a particularly large bug. We’re not talking hairy-legged tarantula or antipodean funnel-web monstrosity. A little wingless weevil chappie I suppose.
He scuttled a couple of inches to the edge of the plate and … stopped. He looked at me and I looked at him, like two gunslingers facing each other down across a dusty street.
When I say “he” I have to confess that I am speculating. If I am unclear about his or her species then I am equally clueless about his or her gender.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”
My wife looked up. “Oh?” she asked.
I pointed at the critter.
“Oh!” she said. It was nice to have matrimonial confirmation.
At this point in our story, our unexpected guest took to its several legs and scrambled off my plate and clear across the table. Exit watched by a suddenly appetite-less diner.
Gingerly I picked at the now-toxic remnants of the salad. I am not sure what I was looking for. An accomplice or two? Evidence of his activities under the lettuce and rocket? An insect party still in full swing where the other guests were wondering where Fred had gone?
Well, what could I do? I politely summoned the waitress and told her that our table for two had briefly become a table for three. Of course I had no proof as the offending beastie had taken to its heels. If insects have heels. I am a bit hazy about details like that.
She offered me a gratis pudding but that only gave me visions of spiders in the profiteroles. And nobody spiders in the profiteroles.
That’s where it ends. We never did see our friend again. I like to think that he had a good and fulfilled life, as bug lives go. I picture him happily doing bug things that have nothing to do with being lightly tossed in vinaigrette.
As for me, these days I like to inspect my salad with a little fork prodding and judicious lettuce lifting.
As you do.
Will Once
Ew. Yes, it happens. But it is not appreciated.
I do like your acceptance of the creature as a fellow creature. I wonder what crossed his (her/its?) mind when he spied you spying him. (How near-sighted are such things?) Terror? Curiosity? Disgust at the idea that you might have eaten him? Relief that you did not?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Happy New Year!
I would like to anthropomorphise and imagine that he/she had all sorts of human emotions. But I read somewhere that insects are very short-sighted so I expect he/she didn’t know I was there. My guess is that he/she was perfectly happy munching away in the salad and thinking about laying some eggs. It was only when the cook put in a slosh of vinegar dressing that he decided to look for better accommodation.
LikeLike
About twenty years ago, I subscribed to an online international forum where writers posted pieces for commentary. A Romanian posted a short story about a cockroach. It was third-person from the roach’s point of view. The author apologized in advance for his poor English (which was a whole lot better than my Romanian).
The roach’s day was occupied with climbing up or down to various apartment in the building, in search of food. But what he did first, before anything else, was go into one particular apartment. A middle-aged woman lived there alone, and she often nodded off while sitting at her kitchen table. If the roach found her thus, he crept out, climbed onto her shoe, and stroked her ankle with his antennae because he had fallen in love with her.
The story was absolutely charming! Whodathunkit! And the poor English added to the tone of the piece because, after all, how much formal education does a cockroach get?
I really wanted to know more about the little fellow!
Anthropomorphize to your heart’s content, Fellow Word Bard!
LikeLike