The Old Man and the Ant
The Old Man finds and ant. That's ant - A-N-T, not A-U-N-T, but that is already apparent. Still. There is a need to make a distinction. The ant crawls along the rim of the toilet bowl -- seat up -- over dried urine stains.
It is that time of year again. But tiny invaders usually encroach via the back door, breeching cracks in the floor near the threshold, gaps between the door and the door jamb. There's a screw lose in the latch plate that keeps backing out. Leaving the house vulnerable. The ants march in, along the floor molding, making a bee-line (why not an ant-line?) for crumbs.
The Old Man suspects he will return from his trip inundated with ants. That's ants - A-N-T-S, not A-U-N-T-S. It has been too long since he's seen any of his aunts, but perhaps on this trip he will be allowed access to at least the one. Laid up in Buchannon. A regiment and routine of medications and television. Three meals a day. Visitors, when they can. When allowed. The lady is an iron horse, outliving The Old Man's mother by going on eight years now. They were twins. Still are, perhaps. His mother persisting in his aunt's image.
The Old Man pokes the ant on the rim of its world into the bowl. Into the pool of chemical blue water. It swims. Or walks on water. The Old Man directs a feeble stream of urine at it, creating waves and eddies. The ant struggles against the tide. The hue of the bowl-water change changes from the cloudy yellow into a green merk.
That little old ant persists even as the flush carries it away in a rush down the pipes.