The shirt is still on top

The bag is still under the shirt. I checked. Not because I was going to pack it — I told myself I was looking for a clean towel and my hand just went to the cupboard. That is a lie I am allowing myself to keep.

The count is twelve weeks now. I did not count on purpose. I was doing the weekly feed and the flour beetles I keep for the smaller scorpions had run low, so I drove to the pet supply in Bellville and the cashier asked how I was and I said fine and somewhere between the parking lot and the front door my brain went: twelve. I came home and tipped a tub of beetles into the bin and did not write it down anywhere because writing it would make it a number I am tracking, and I am not tracking it.

I fed the stock today. Three Parabuthus granulatus, one Hadogenes, the flat-rock I am not sure is eating. I talk to them more than I should. Not sweet things — I tell the Hadogenes he is being dramatic, I tell the P. granulatus to stop acting like a landlord. I do not name them. I am not going to be the person who names her stock and then cries when she has to ship them.

The UV lamp buzzed all day. I am still preferring it to the light I do not have. I am aware I sound like I am writing a poem about a lamp. I am not. I am writing about the fact that a fluorescent tube I bought for fourteen rand is doing what a person apparently cannot.

I have stopped resenting the people who answer their fathers. I have started resenting my own phone for not having a good reason to ring. I am aware these are different problems. I do not care tonight.

I did not look at the bag. I looked at the shirt on top of the bag. There is a difference and I am clinging to it.