“You never kill the gecko.”
“Can I just put it outside, then?”
“No! Leave it alone. It takes care the cockroaches.”
“But it will make doodoo and might lay eggs.”
“That’s okay. I rather have gecko doodoo and eggs than cockroach doodoo and eggs.”
Thus programmed in childhood, to her dismay she discovered not one, but two lifeless geckos. Reminiscent of a lovers’ suicide, like a yin-yang symbol, their tails curved in opposite directions, their heads together, as though their final communications were intimate, intended only for each other. Had one sprung to rescue its mate in distress, then tragically succumbed to the same fate? Or were they unfortunate strangers that simultaneously spied and raced toward an irresistible repast, thence their doom?
She shook her head mournfully. Lifting it by its semicircular tab, whispering, “I’m sorry,” she lowered it slowly, gently into the kitchen trash, that indiscriminate Hoy Hoy Trap-A-Roach that had tragically taken unintended casualties with intended, friends with foes, geckos and cockroaches alike.