Dating : Scaring the Scorpions in My Bed.

Preparing for wave two.

I reached my father’s home in Costa Rica. The last person who had been there was me. He was stuck in the United States. I had also been in the United States, but I hadn’t felt stuck. He was eager to come back, whereas I had taken my time. Still, somehow, strangely, I had made it back first.

I saw evidence that my grandmother had come in looking for spare parts — the TV was gone, my broom, my towels, some pots, and my father’s favorite knives, the ones with the red handles. I smiled to myself. I would have to get them back before he came; he would be annoyed.

But aside from that, no one had been in there since February.

There were cobwebs everywhere. The dust stung my eyes. Getting through customs had been a different sort of ordeal. We had to fill out forms, buy insurance, get codes for our phones, and let the customs agents scan the codes. We stood six feet apart. Agents took people’s temperatures at random. But still, even though I was nervous, I felt like I was home. How could someone turn me away from my home?

I had spent the first wave in New York. No one believed me when I told them we protested peacefully, we stayed inside, we donated, we volunteered. To the rest of the world, New York had burned down. It was a cesspool of crime. Bodies piled up and liquefied in the streets.

And no matter how many times I told them about how I loved walking around the park with friends and mixed drinks, how I walked my roommate’s dog every night, and how we all picked up extra garbage, everyone just believed what they wanted to believe about New York.

I left the states about a week and a half before Thanksgiving, right before the rush. I felt like I had slipped under a closing door. Would there be another lockdown? I didn’t see how there wouldn’t be.

My poor house. Abandoned, unloved. I stomped around and made noise. I opened and closed drawers. I burned a candle. I burned incense. I hoped the scorpions hiding in my clothes and shoes would hear me and leave on their own.

I kicked the bedframe, hit the pillows. Scorpions only stung you if they had no choice, so I wanted to give them the option to run and hide. I would clean tomorrow. I had to sleep now.

I hit and shook the pillows. I grabbed pillows and hit the bed. I had to scare them away. I did this for I don’t know how long. Maybe a minute. Maybe an hour.

When I was satisfied that nothing was there, I went to sleep. Maybe they were under me, hiding. There were spiders in here for sure. I would have to sweep. I would have to air out all my laundry. I would have to empty every drawer and shake out all the shoes. If there were any leather pieces, they would have crumbled in the humidity by now. Leather here, if not wrapped in plastic, turns into gray flakes, and is eaten hollow by ants.

Here is where I would spend the second wave. My other home, my home so different from New York.

I remembered an old friend who felt that he met me to teach him a lesson. I smiled to myself. I knew it was not the lesson he wanted to learn. Traveling men want to meet strange, magical, sexy women who will give them everything they want. A spiritual guide. Sex. A mother’s love. And no conflict. It doesn’t happen that way. I fell asleep hoping he learned something from me, even if it was something unpleasant.

I would clean, and the house would be alive. The air would circulate. And over time, it would feel like my home again. I would touch the clothes I had purchased in India, in Italy, in New York, in England. I would feel everything. I would throw things out with a degree of authority. I wasn’t renting someone else’s room now. These were my things, and my memories.

The scorpions would have to adapt.