recurring

He is walking in front of me but I know he is a runner. I see his eyes slipping sideways and his bones preparing to dart; a stiffening in his gait.

His footprints are sharp. He knows how to damage. You wouldn't think it though because he is elusive as all hell. He hides his malice under a inward frown so subtle you can only see it under neon light.

Kaleidoscope buildings loom into my ninth-floor hide-out. Nine lives and nine must-haves. A list of four dos and five don'ts. 

Don't.

"Don't come in," he said. "My landlord's here."

"Ok," I said. "Let's just stand here and listen to the possums crying at each other for a while.

"Have you met your next door neighbours yet?"

"No," he said. "And I don't want to.

"You should go now."

"That's ok," said me, "I've already invited them around for tea tomorrow."

Said he, "You shouldn't have done that. I don't know how to cook. I'm going to run away. You probably shouldn't come with me. I'm going to run away now, ok? Bye."

He didn't even bother shutting the door on me because he knew I wouldn't follow. He just ran.

He turned around and ran down the long, narrow hallway of his landlord's house.

I sat down on the door matt which said 'WELCOME' and crossed my legs. I tried to straighten out the curves of my back.

The hallway extended out ahead of him as he ran, narrowing to a fine, jagged point in the distance. I couldn't see the end of it. The hallway extended out further and further the more he ran. But he didn't shrink as he got further away. He outgrew the narrowing hallway. He had to stop running. He had to hunch over and crawl. Eventually he had to lie on his stomach and wriggle like a legless lizard.

He had to stop running. Wriggling, I mean. He had to stop wriggling away because his hallway was too narrow.

"Do you need a hand, need a hand, need a hand..." I echoed down the hall.

"Nope," he called back. "I'm fine. Just a bit stuck."

"Ok," said me. "I'll just wait."

I pulled an apple out of my bag. The same worm-ridden apple from yesterday's breakfast. Preserved in an oily plastic snap-lock bag. I ate it without looking at it. Welcoming the fluttery ant feeling inside of me once more.

"Hello," I said, patting my belly. "Hello ants.

"Ants, he is a runner. He is not coming back."

I send my ant mafia after him.

"Go!"

Millions of little black specks stalking his nervous footprints. They are smart, these ants. As sharp as he is. He cannot out-smart them, even with disappearing acts. They know his bones well. They can smell him through their leg holes.

The grasshoppers hear his ankle joints clicking as he passes them on the footpath. The grasshoppers dob him in to the ants. Insect secret service. Code 12.