Last night, we were abed. I was under the impression that Tanja had preceded me into slumber; her eyes were closed and there was a calm about her that suggested sleep. I turned out my light and settled down myself.

Just then there was a noise. Well, I call it a noise–and that’s what it was–but such a slight, infinitesimal noise that one would struggle to put it into a word–you can’t call it a “click” or a “tick”–that’s far too sharp, but ‘thid’ or “dith” gives it too much weight. There isn’t a great combination of letters for it. It existed as a noise, but just barely.

But an instant after the sound, Tanja spoke, urgency in her voice.

“I heard a marmorated stink bug.”

“I’m sorry. What?”

“A marmorated stink bug. I heard it land on the wall.”

“What makes you think it’s a marmorated stink bug?”

“Because it made the sound of a marmorated stink bug landing on a wall.”

“That’s pretty specific.”

“On the wall above the door.”

“That’s even more specific,” I said.

I turned on the light and looked over the door. There was something thing there.

“Do you see anything?”

Tanja, constrained by the collar, could not look without sitting up in bed and turning her entire torso. It would’ve been a simple thing to just turn the light out and say the coast was clear. But that would be deceitful. And anyway, now I was intrigued. There was something there, but my eyes were not sharp enough to identify whether it were an insect at all, far less the species. What chance it would prove to be a marmorated stink bug.

I threw back the covers, rose from bed and made my way across the expanse of our chamber until I reached the wall. There, on the wall above the door, was a stink bug, marmorations and all.

“I’ll be goddamned,” I said.

“Will you get rid of it?”

“You don’t even need me to confirm it,” I said, amazed.

“I heard it land,” she said. “Will you get rid of it?”

“You hear something land.”

“Will you get rid of it? I hate them.”

Native originally to Asia, now quite common in the Mid-Atlantic, they are, apparently making progress in the PNW. I got a tissue, crushed and flushed.

By the time I lay back down, Tanja appeared to be sleeping again.

“What did it sound like to you?” I asked. “What in that noise said marmorated stink bug?”

Silence. Feigning sleep.

“If you heard that bug, you can hear me.”

Silence. Then:

“I heard the feet land almost all at once, and then you can hear the wings fold a moment after.”

“Come on.”

“Did you hear it?” she challenged.

“I heard something.”

“And what was it?”

“A marmorated stink bug, but..”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.”

That’s when it struck me. They say that when you lose one sense, the others work to compensate. Of course Tanja is rapidly regaining the movement she lost, but is it possible her other senses, having begun, in a panic, to increase their sensitivity, found that they enjoyed their new strength?

Is it possible she is growing stronger, by the day, in ways that we can neither imagine nor measure?

I have been sitting here trying to think of other possible explanations and I’m afraid there are none. Applying Occam’s Razor, we come to the inescapable conclusion that, like Peter Parker before her, Tanja has been made into a superhero by a strange and unfortunate accident.

Fantastic.

I mean, she was already a lot, you know? This is just going to add. Especially once she lands on a good name. Super Ears seems too flip. Aural Woman to open to misinterpretation. Perhaps, she ‘ll take inspiration from one of the darker heroes, like The Punisher. Perhaps she’ll call herself The Listener.

Well, the Listener had a very busy day today, lots of practical OT, an outing to a movie, another impressive run at the daily jumble. Her grip is getting quite strong. She high-fived me today and it was pretty solid. Progress is being made.

And only 17 days left in the countdown. Good night!

The Listener
— by Billy Collins

I cannot see you a thousand miles from here,
but I can hear you
whenever you cough in your bedroom
or when you set down
your wineglass on a granite counter.

This afternoon
I even heard scissors moving
at the tips of your hair
and the dark snips falling
onto a marble floor.

I keep the jazz
on the radio turned off.
I walk across the floor softly,
eyes closed,
the windows in the house shut tight.

I hear a motor on the road in front,
a plane humming overhead,
someone hammering,
then there is nothing
but the white stone building of silence.

You must be asleep
for it to be this quiet,
so I will sit and wait
for the rustle of your blanket
or noise from your dream.

Meanwhile, I will listen to the ant bearing
a dead comrade
across these floorboards—
the noble sounds
of his tread and his low keening.