I squinted. It sure didn't look like it had been there the night before. I knew my ceiling reasonably well. I know I'm going to regret putting my glasses on, I thought as I walked over to the desk, retrieved them, and walked back. I was right.
I called the office. "There's a cockroach on my ceiling, and I don't like bugs," I informed the new manager, adding my name and apartment number as an afterthought.
"I'll see if I can send the maintenance guy down," she told me. "And keep your eye on it. We don't have time to look for it."
I semi-dressed under my nightgown as I kept a wary eye on the ceiling. I wondered how long it would take the maintenance guy to get there. I wondered if it would be worth my time to get my cellphone and make a panicked text message post to LJ about my little visitor.
He knocked. I indicated the ceiling -- a spot very near my bed.
"It's just la cucharacha," he told me.
"I don't like la cucharacha," I informed him.
He made a heroic NBA leap with a paper towel.
"You want it?" he asked.
He and the (presumably squished) remains of la cucharacha departed, after leaving me with the intelligence that the bug-sprayer guys would be in and around sometime later on.