“Don’t pretend that we haven’t been intimate,” he said, “You have seen my palps, for heaven’s sake, no one has seen my palps like you have.”
She was terrified. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The bugs were just supposed to be under the scope: small, legion, inert, dead.
“No… yes… I mean… I’m… I’m sorry,” she stuttered, “There have been so many and I have been so busy—I didn’t know you would feel this way.”
His mandibles were close. She could feel his breath and hear the high-pitched, winding sound of his sorrow. His pain was palpable. She felt that she had provided the necessary attention and care. She had examined his palps, yes, and so much more including his sizable trochantin and lush cetae.
“I just wanted to get through this year’s samples,” she gasped, “I was so close last year and didn’t finish—it was so unsatisfying.”
Perhaps that was not the best answer.
“Have the last thirteen weeks meant nothing to you?” he breathed, as his mandibles slowly squeezed around her throat. She reached for her forceps and dissecting needle. Somehow, this would have to end.
These last thirteen weeks have brought us to the brink of finishing the 2016 samples. We’ll have the last of the 2015 unsatisfyingly incomplete samples available for a big finish this season.