In the bathroom, a millipede. Too-many legs carry it out of dark pockets, ugly against the white wall. Each appendage moves with a mind of its own, nothing like reeds in a stream.
I could ignore it, pretend I didn't see; it would slink away, disappear, and I could forget. But back in the shadows, it would grow bigger. Its legs would multiply. Who knows where it'd turn up, half a foot long and with a million legs. Maybe in the damp folds of my towel, right where I'd want to wipe my face. Maybe rearing up out of the shower drain, inches from my bare foot.
I cringe and shudder. I don't want to peel it off the wall, I don't want to feel the crunch of its body, but its image crawls down my spine. I scoop it into a wad of toilet paper and flush, quickly.
But one in the light means how many still hidden? Nesting. I don't want to know.
After my shower, I give my towel an extra good shake. A lot of good that will do. Those legs cling.