She ignores them and wordlessly shifts to the side to hide the jar from their view. For some reason, she feels strangely protective of it. The Spaniards do not press the issue, too impressed with their shared cleverness to bother her any longer. The two make a few more jokes to each other before their conversation resumes. There is more talk about their parallel histories and what a funny thing it was that they met in this place, of all places, rather than many other times before. One calls the other hermano in turn. She is both annoyed and relieved at their predictability.
Meanwhile, still clutching the glass to her stomach, she brainstorms about what she knows about cockroaches. The jar should have been an expected surprise. Entomology was the latest preoccupation in her son’s life. The week before it was astronomy, before that, archaeology, and before that, geology. Often she asks him how school is, only to be answered with some fact about the Greek god of blacksmiths or a far-flung comet beyond Pluto. With him, everything is indirect, if indeed it means anything at all.
Cockroaches could survive a nuclear war. They can survive three days without their heads. Praying mantises ate their mates. Despite her relationship with the boy’s father, she is pretty sure that did not have anything to do with it. Did they devour their young, too? She can’t remember. After a few more moments of turning ideas in her head and gazing at landed planes through the window, she chooses to take the gesture simply. It is his strange way of saying ‘have a good trip, I love you and I miss you.’ She pays no attention to the fact that there is nothing good about the trip, and how she is never quite so sure about his affections. It is easier to think so.
The shuttle lurched into the stop, and all the passengers slowly gather their things. Maneuvering her suitcase, her bag, and the jar is a bit more difficult than she anticipated, but she does not put the jar back to its original pocket. It requires a bit of juggling, as she switches the jar from one hand to the other, while hoisting her bag on the other shoulder. Perhaps she shouldn’t have packed so much. Who knows how long she’d even be here. She hoped that it wouldn’t not take too much time, even though she could never admit so out loud.
Neither Spaniard offers assistance, instead concentrating on, surprise surprise, another happy coincidence. They have rented their cars from the same place. She has rented her car from a different place, across from theirs, but through the sliding door glass that the line is about fifteen people, each wearing the same mix of boredom and impatience on their faces.
She is thankful for the delay in her plans. Rather than stand in the same line and wear the same face, she stacks her luggage on a bench outside. She buys an ice cream bar from a nearby vending machine, her lunch for the day, and sits down, watching the bugs crawl inside the jar. The cockroaches circle the jar, feeling around with their whisker-long antennae. She wonders if they know that they are trapped or if the surface of the glass continually becomes new for them. Goldfish have 25-second memories, what about insects? Or do they have a memory of all their days seen through their funhouse mirror eyes?
As she finishes the ice cream bar, she notices that the cockroaches’ movements are getting more labored. Her hand dips into her bag to find the pen she previously denied to the Spaniards. There is nothing else unexpected in the pocket. Maybe it’s sharp enough, she thinks. She tries to push the tip of the pen through the soft white plastic lid. Its material is too thick at first, so she uses both hands, holding the jar between her thighs. People coming from different shuttles and even small children with her families walk by and whisper about her oddness. She doesn’t mind and keeps pressing, until finally she forces the pen through, making a small hole outlined in blue ink. She repeats the process four more times until she is satisfied.
Afterwards, the cockroaches, to her, look livelier, their reddish brown bodies scampering more energetically across the bottom, attempting to walk up the sides. She even thinks that the praying mantis shows a small quiver of life, slight and barely noticeable. She might have even imagined it.
The Spaniards walk outside the sliding door, side by side, perfectly in synch. But it is time for them to part. They clasp each other’s shoulders with their hands, saying that they might meet again some day. Maybe even on the plane back. Of course! The other one says. As they walk away in separate directions, different cars waiting for them, it does not matter whether they meet again or not. What they know of each other is perfect, always to be looked upon with fondness, a funny story to tell. Such is the easy affection between strangers.
