The waterbug didn’t need to die,
but she asked
and I didn’t want her anxious
and it seemed the most expedient way.

I stepped on it (them? I’m not sure if the dead
or those of insect sort care about gender identity)
and then picked up the remains with a receipt.
The remains went into the compost pile
and the receipt went into recycling.

"All good?" I asked.
"Thanks," she said.
All good.

I went back to what I was doing,
but thoughts lingered with me
enough to consider if my actions were right.

Was the paper still recyclable with bug on it?
To this day, I still wonder.