Living in a third-world country has afforded me many opportunities to experience genuine fear. Taxi rides down dark roads at 1am, for instance. Putting my hand into a community bowl and eating whatever I grab. Terrifying, if I actually think about it. But you, Gecko, have given me the true gift of fear, for now I am unable to sit on my toilet without thoughts of you. Don’t flatter yourself; they’re not fond memories of our brief time together. Rather, I dread with absolute fear your encore performance, much like the world dreads Stallone returning for another Rocky movie.
I don’t buy the line, “They’re just as much afraid of you as you are of them.” It’s used for snakes and bats and sharks and now it’s being passed on to you. I just can’t accept that reasoning when I saw your malevolent eyes as you scampered up the bowl and would have leaped on me had I not begun my famous Screaming-for-Help routine. Did you like that? Did I entertain you with my jumping and spinning and slapping my brother until he did something about you? Pretty funny. Funny enough that you would come back just to see me do it again. It’s the same principle we were taught in Teacher School: students test boundaries to get a reaction, gauge the reaction, then respond accordingly. And based on the fuss I made about your toilet debut, I’m confident you’re expecting a repeat performance.
I could play it tough and challenge you to come back: Go ahead, your move, Gecko. But I won’t. Because I’m certain that on your next appearance my couch jumping heights would outdistance even those of Tom Cruise. My alternative is to beg you never to come back. Surely the sewers of Bamako can offer you more excitement than my bathroom. Even if you long to smell the inviting combination of scents I’ve concocted (Yankee Candle’s Mandarin Cranberry, Bath & Body Works’ Passionfruit and Guava, and a dash of cheap Malian soap), I must make one final plea to you: let me pee in peace.
Imploring your mercy,
Amber
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