There are little black dots at my workplace.

They crawl next to me, little black dots the size of a full stop moving their tiny legs feverishly on the wall to my right.

She slams. She smacks her chair hard. She slaps the table with a thunderous clap that would shatter a thousand chandeliers.

Tiny black dots crawls onto my mousepad. They crawl around my mouse, they crawl up and down the yellowing spongey surface, they walk around the space like it’s their home, but somehow, they would not crawl onto my hands.

She squeals, a bigger cousin of the tiny black dot has found its way near our feet. She squeals with so much fear, I immediately lift up my size 5 foot and stomp on it. I lift my foot up, and all that was left is a small blotch of wetness on the cold hard floor. The carcass of a red dot becomes part of the sole of my flip flop.

Guilt.

The little black moving dots form a marching line on the vertical wall, defying gravity.

“Why are there so many ants!” A voice pipes up.

Two little black dots stop for a short moment. They hesitate and crawl up the flower pot on my desk, little antenna bobbing up and down. They must be discussing the best way up the mini tree.

They bought ant poison.

The little black dots are no where to be seen.

Four little black dots.

Two little black dot.

I stare at the little black dot. I look out the big glass window to see trees of green and skies of blue. But there are walls around me. I see lights, wood, cement and steel.

I stare at the little black dot and remember what it’s like to taste the smell of the muddy fresh earth.

I look at the big white wall, one little black dot scurrying back to where he calls home.

Come back tomorrow, little black dot.