The night Megha decided that I was the one was the night, I’m certain, when I invited her back to my room—an austere room, halfway up the west side of a high rise, with walls of brick, and laminated floors, and knots of copper plumbing arbitrarily exposed—and she laid eyes upon my mason jars, all eleven of them, lined up neatly on a single wooden shelf above my bed, each containing a single reconstructed cockroach peacefully suspended in a solution of H2O and ethyl alcohol.
Metamorphosis
