Dinner by by Aaron A. Polson

At 4:52 PM, a delivery man, rushed and late on his route, drops a brown package on the stoop of 721 Haven Avenue. The package is clearly labeled in large, block letters: Dr. Kiekhoffer, 723 Haven. Something tinkled inside the box as it landed.

By 5:00, a small line of hungry, red dots trail from the box.

Fifteen minutes later, Kathy stumbles into the kitchen at 721 Haven carrying a heavy brown sack of groceries in one arm and her car keys in the opposite hand. She kicks the door shut with one foot and drops the groceries on the counter. Glancing at her wall clock, she takes note of the time: 5:15 PM. A small, scurrying red thing pulls at the corner of her vision.

“Ew, an ant,” she mutters, pressing a thumb into the offending insect, leaving a small red smear behind. Kathy yanks a paper towel from the holder, quickly wipes up the mark, and rinses the blood-like stain from her thumb under the running faucet.

She looks back at the clock. 5:18. Steve will be home by six. Kathy reaches into the brown bag and fishes out an onion, a green pepper, and some broccoli. Stir fry. That will be quickest. Just as she slides the chopping board from its nest next to the stove, she spots two more red, scavenging ants meandering on the back-splash above the sink. Grabbing another paper towel, she wads it into a ball and smashes both with a quick blotting motion.

She begins chopping the vegetables. More red dots bleed in from the periphery, and Kathy looks up for a moment—just long enough for the sharp knife point to slice the tip of her thumb.

“Shit!” The knife clatters to the floor. Wrapping the other hand around her thumb, Kathy rushes out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bathroom. She rinses the wound, rummages for a bandage, and applies it over the groove carved her skin.

Returning to the kitchen, she finds a score of ants milling around a drop blood in the sink. Kathy yanks the sprayer from its home next to the faucet. Little red legs kick and struggle, but ultimately wash into gaping drain. Tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear, Kathy slides the sprayer back into place.

At 5:29, she glances at the clock again, reaches under the stove, and grabs a large skillet. The burner flashes with a flick of her wrist, and she turns to her cutting board and chopped vegetables. Something tickles her neck as she pours a little peanut oil into the hot skillet.

“Damn!” She brushes one hand across her throat. An ant drops into the warm oil and sizzles, writhing and squirming. “Oh . . . ”

Her neck begins to throb. Then the burning sensation, like hundreds of small pins scratching her skin, erupts under her blouse, around her waist band, and down her legs. Kathy digs her fingers into her flesh and scratches. The red swarm covers her exposed forearms, little ants stinging and pinching her pink flesh, and these ants draw blood. Minute dots of viscous red swelled on her skin.

Her head swings around the room. Even the walls seem to crawl with zig-zagging little blots of red.

Kathy squeezes her eyes against the burning pain and stumbles into the hallway with her hands held in front as guides. “The shower,” she mumbles, staggering toward the bathroom. They continue stinging relentlessly. Tears push from her eyes, and Kathy drops hard to her knees, reaching for the wall with one hand, painting a blotch of blood and crushed insect in a great arc as she falls.

On hands and knees, she gropes toward the bathroom and promised salvation of the shower. She pulls at the hallway rug and squeezes out a little gasp as her waterlogged lenses focus on a moving, red mass, thousands strong. The ants continue to wash toward her.

The clock on the kitchen wall reads 5:45. The door rattles and clicks open. Kathy’s husband Steve, a burly man in a dark suit, steps through the door, glances at the stove, and notes the empty skillet. “Honey? What’s for dinner?”