Leeches belong in my mind to outdoor water. Creeks after rain. Muddy banks. Places where people warn children to watch their legs. A tiled bathroom with a familiar mat and a familiar soap dish did not belong on that list. The mismatch between the setting and the creature produced the shock.
I left the room to find a way to remove it without touching it with my hands. A piece of paper a jar and a plan to take it outside replaced the earlier paralysis. The practical steps came after the recognition. The recognition itself was the moment that changed the room.
In the days that followed I developed a new habit at the doorway. My eyes went to the floor first. Then to the base of the toilet. Then to the area around the drain. The habit formed without a decision. The habit was the mind’s way of refusing to be surprised in the same place twice.
