Big Man

I have ants in my shower. And only in my shower. And only, like, one ant at a time. I know it's not the exact same ant because I've killed a few of them. But then I've let a few of them live too, because I'm beneficent.
   I wonder what they think of me. Assuming they can register the concept of me, since I'm so much larger than they are. It would be like me trying to conceive of a two-mile-tall person, a concept I can't even begin to get my head around. And I wonder what they think of the shower with its expanses of white tiles like acres of porcelain Heaven. I also wonder how they're getting in there, since I don't see ants anywhere else in the house. If you see one or two or three you know there are many more somewhere else. Ants don't go it alone.
   I also feel guilty for subjecting them to what must be the worst hurricane they've ever experienced. There's almost always one ant in the shower no matter when I get in, and they're gone when I'm done. Which means they must be - whoosh! - down the drain.
   Does that ant's best friend miss it when it doesn't come back from foraging? Do the others organize search parties? Have I unwittingly become the ant Bermuda Triangle? Do ant conspiracy theorists believe aliens are spiriting their brethren away when in fact it's just me trying to wash off the day's grime? These are the thoughts that keep me awake sometimes.
   Mostly, though I wonder what ants must think of my junk. I mean, really, my wiener has to be immense to them. Truly gargantuan on a scale that's like nothing they've ever seen. Maybe that's it... they've come to pay their respects. Like a cargo cult. For my penis. Sure, let's go with that.