Two antlers, it waved into the bathroom air trying to feel the damp and maybe a crevice in the rotting wood of the door, it's legs, all of them, hairy, clawed, bent and unmoving, supported the body covered with rudimentary wings over the spotted tiles. It's eyes must have not been moving, for there was nothing in the creature to suggest (despite the moving antlers) that it was moving in the remotest sense of the term. The antlers must have been searching for the existence of the body they were attached to, this is how it looked. The cockroach.
He had to have a bath every morning, and it had to exist in this damp universe, Both without a choice, without a motive one washing away the last nights semen the other accumulating the weeks stillness that was within the reach of its frail antlers. One had a day before him and the other, a life.
Every morning with his towel and a stinking undergarment he would enter, the dreams still unwashed, looking for the antlers, he did not like them much, they were so unlike the day he would have before him, a day that did not remind him ever of the antlers or the legs so hairy. Yet such an integral part they were, like the toothbrush he forgot about for the rest of the day. A 'recalcitrant integrity', he coined it while cleaning his hair, thinking about the existence of the bug and his day in the office.
He must have thought of killing it, when he had lunch with his colleagues, or when he washed his hands at the toilet, but he just couldn't bring himself to crushing the already unmoving existence which the antlers sought, and, perhaps, had yet not found. 'Integrity' he thought, was so stubborn.
It changed corners among the ones it owned, two of the four. He did not know of this possession, ignorance breeds insecurity, and this, it bred in his hazy mind. He would enter with care, his eyes inspecting the dotted tiles for the pervicacious existence that did not move, careful not to crush what was, the antlers only hope.