Peter recalls the first time he watched Grace casually squash with the nub of her thumb a tiny ant. It had somehow crawled along the bench top just as she was sipping her morning coffee.
Now, days later, she was bum out head in the cupboards, wiping down every imaginable surface.
"There must be a crumb somewhere," she'd said as she woke Peter up. The thought came to her in a dream, taunting her, like the pea in the mattress.
He'd been sleeping on the couch after having the audacity to question why the ants mattered. It was still dark outside and now he feared his entire weekend was going to be lost to either arguing or seeking this mysterious crumb.
Grace already had on the yellow gloves, the ones that signalled things were getting real. She squeezed some daisy yellow liquid onto a sponge before heading into the kitchen.
Peter slowly raised himself before checking his phone for the time. 2.13am.
It suddenly dawns on him they've been living together for all of three weeks before the crazy came out. Who cared if there was a lone crumb responsible for attracting a horde of ants? That's why they invented fly spray. Carpet bomb the place, leave some windows open and pray you don't end up with lung cancer.
It can't be worse than the toxic yellow goo Grace is currently inhaling as she scrubs clean the kitchen bench.
Unless this isn't about the ant, but about her choice to move in with him. Was this her projecting the insidious way the ants have infested their house to the way their relationship has progressed? Was the crumb all those fun carefree dates and now life took a sharp turn towards responsibility and routine?
Peter donned some gloves to help Grace expunge any lingering doubts.