A conversation at our house between two naked people, one of whom hotly denies every word reported in this version of events . . .
“Wait, don’t turn out the light . . . what was that?”
“What? I don’t see anything.”
“That.”
“Oooh, yeah I see. That’s a big moth. Night.”
“Don’t turn out the light! It’s all flappy and threatening.”
“It’s a moth, babe. It is not all flappy and threatening.”
“It’s huge and floppy . . . it’s got bat-wings!”
“Bat-wings?”
“Why is it flying around like that? What does it want?”
“Seriously? Like I know what moths want? Although I think they like light, so maybe it will settle down if I turn out the light.”
“Do not turn out the light. It will jump me.”
“Moths do not jump people, babe.”
“Like a gangster.”
“A gangster moth?”
“Just get it out of here.”
“This is why we can never go camping. You’d be out in the woods shrieking about gangster moths and then you would be eaten by a port-a-potty piranha.”
“Another perfectly reasonable fear.”
“So what do you want me to do, exactly?”
“Just get it out of here. Catch it and feed it to Kallan’s turtle.”
“Yeah, so I will just catch a flying flapping moth as it tumbles across the surface of our ceiling. That should be simple.”
“Just do it.”
“I guess if I stand on the bed, I could reach it if it comes this direction.”
“There you go.”
“OK, but close your eyes . . . remember that Seinfeld episode about bad naked? Pretty sure standing on the bed to catch a moth qualifies as bad naked.”
“Babe, there is no such thing as bad naked where you are concerned. Naked you is good naked.”
“Yeah, I would be all convinced and sexy except you have the blankets pulled up to your chin like a big fucking baby. You’re scared to close your eyes, aren’t you?”
“I’m tracking the moth.”
“Look at you! Your eyes are huge with fear and watchfulness! I’m standing on the bed waiting to catch the moth as soon as he flies over here . . . I do not need you to track the moth. Close your eyes.”
“If I close my eyes, he will moth-poo in my mouth.”
“Huh. Because that is so a normal fear. Ok, so close your mouth as well. Anyway, do moths even poo? I thought they did all their eating during the caterpillar stage.”
“I’m sure they poo, but even if they do not, I do not want to be covered in flutter droppings.”
“Flutter droppings?”
“Flutter droppings are real.”
“Alrighty, then.”
“Here he comes . . . catch him!”
“Stop yelling at me!”
“Why didn’t you catch him?”
“Because I would have had to step off of the bed and that would be some bad injured naked, right there.”
“I told you, there is no such thing as bad naked where you are concerned.”
“And I told you, those words would be sexier if you weren’t hiding from a moth as you spoke them.”
“This is how I always hold the blankets. Eeeeekk!! Here he comes again!”
“Did you just eeeeeekkkk?”
“Catch him!”
“He’s mocking us.”
“You’re not even trying to catch him.”
“Really? You think I am trying to maximize the time I spend standing naked on the bed leaping ungracefully at the ceiling to catch a dusty flying bug? Really?”
“Here he comes again! Eeeek . . . he dove at my head! He is trying to flutter-bomb me!”
“Flutter-bomb? You are killing me! How am I supposed to catch a moth when I am giggling?”
“Just grab him out of the air if he won’t land.”
“Alright, hold on.”
“Oooh, almost! Try again.”
“Hold on. Stop talking.”
“Here he comes here he comes here he comes . . . eeek!”
“Oh, for god’s sake.”
“Grab him!”
“Shhhhhh.”
“GRAB HIM!”
“There. Got him.”
“Ugh . . . I am covered in flutter-droppings. I can feel them all over me.”
“You are insane.”
“Are you holding him tightly?”
“Yup.”
“Is he trying to bite his way out of your hand?”
“You are a crazy person. Moths don’t bite.”
“I bet he’s struggling with his moth-claws to rip himself free.”
“Moth-claws?”
“Pretty sure moths have claws for ripping apart their prey.”
“Pretty sure they do not.”
“Just get it out of here.”
“Be right back.”
“Wash your hands before you come back . . . moth poo and flutter droppings are filled with germs.”
“What did your parents do to you, exactly?”
“Just do it.”
“Fine. Happy now?”
“Want to snuggle?”
“Hmmmm.”
“Come on . . . I’ll keep you safe.”
“From what, exactly? Not moths, that’s for certain.”
“Ummm . . . imaginary stuff?”
“You are a ridiculous man.”
“That’s me . . . ridiculous and naked.”
“I do like ridiculous naked.”
“So we’ll all good.”
Always.
Although we’re probably never going camping.
Geez.
