THE GRAIN OF RICE - ashley hutson

I'm washing the dishes and there's a grain of burnt rice sticking to the side of the sink. I keep looking at it thinking it's an insect even though I know exactly what it is, that it's only a grain of rice that fell out of the pan when I was cooking earlier.

But it's looking meaner now. Bigger. Hardened and shiny like the back of a bug that leaves a smear of something gross behind it.

You gotta keep on top of this shit or it gets out of control, just like the greeting cards that remind me of everyone I don't talk to anymore. Mom-Dad-Tammy-Janet-Grandma-Matt. All these colorful cards I taped to my blank fridge a long time ago because they matched my kitchen. They looked so pretty back then but now collect clots of dust, making everything sad and filthy with their faded, brittle paper and warped corners. I should really trash them but can't quite bring myself to do it, just like I can't bring myself to squash this bug whose crusty ugliness seems to remind me of something else. Something good, maybe.  

I have to kill it, though. What am I waiting for?

Ashley Hutson
Édouard Levé