Filthy

A fragment of black string floats before my face, drifting down from nowhere. I try to grab it; it floats away. It’s buglike in its movements, avoiding my grasp, so sensitive to the changes in air pressure as my palm moves towards it. It floats down; I reach for it, it flies up; I reach for it, it spirals in a buggy helix, the movements of life erratic enough to be impossible to follow or predict; I give up reaching for it.

I know it’s just a piece of string but I can’t help but worry it’s a fly or some insect I can’t identify. These days, everything imperfect in my apartment makes me worry. I’m noticing every…