(‘What is it?’
‘It’s a beetle.’
‘Jesus Christ, keep it the fuck away from me. Where’s it from?’
‘It was hatched or whatever. I don’t know. It’s a beetle.’
‘I mean where did you get it? It’s the size of my hand!’
‘—’
‘Oh my god it’s moving! It’s alive! Look at its shell!’
‘—’
‘Why won’t you say anything? Look at it!’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘But what is that on it? Did you do that? How?’
‘—’
‘They’re moving.’
The oil-film sheen of the chitin is no colour to which she can give a name. Rainbowed and dark, split along a seam so fine that when the insect shuts its wing-case firmly, bringing two halves of a picture together, the line disappears. Like ghosts on a faulty television, figures move on the brittle back.
‘That’s me! Your fucking beetle’s showing me me!’
‘—’
‘Make it stop! What’s it doing?’
‘Do you mean what are you doing? On the shell? Well, just look.’
‘I am looking! I never did that!’
‘You haven’t done it yet.’)