By George Nevgodovskyy

We were lying on top of the bedcovers with all the windows open when a ladybug landed on your leg. It was a hot August night. You smiled and said it was good luck. I smiled back. I let it crawl onto my palm and you asked me to save it, leave it on the balcony. 

It wasn’t an accident. I could’ve easily set it down on the concrete outside and let it fly off. But I didn’t. I wanted to see what it’d be like. I felt its exoskeleton crack inside my hand. I felt its insides wet against my skin. You yelled to me from the bedroom: Is it gone? Yep, I yelled back. I didn’t feel remorse. I went to the sink and turned on the tap, watching the corpse swirl down the black of the drain. 

I hadn’t thought about the ladybug until you said you wanted a divorce. We’d had a few rough years, sure. Moments I wasn’t exactly proud of. But sometimes love is pain. I really thought you understood that. 

That night we were on the balcony, gazing out at the constellations of houses spattered across the hills. Every now and then a light would come on, another would go off. You said it was for the best. I knew I couldn’t let you leave. So right then, in the dark, I decided to tell you. I wish you could’ve seen the look on your face. You looked dead scared. I put my arm around your shoulders and you shuddered, even in the summer heat. I said, What’s the matter, it was just a ladybug. I smiled, but you just turned and looked behind you at the sliding glass door. Somewhere in the hills, another light went dark. You never did smile back. 

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George Nevgodovskyy was born in Kiev, Ukraine, but has lived in Vancouver, Canada for most of his life. He has previously been published in East of the Web, Rejection Letters, Nunum, trampset, and others. He does his best writing after everyone has gone to sleep. Check out more of his work at georgenev.blogspot.com