See the star-crossed gecko lovers' tragic tale at theinspirationroom.com
Love isn't all that crucial for a gecko. Wikipedia says some species of this particular lizard are parthenogenic: they don't need mates to produce babies. The female can do the whole reproduction process by herself. But in order to preserve genetic variation she is given this urge to merge with a male, thus the five little chirps I sometimes hear at night. A sort of five-chirp-blues. There's no evidence so far that any males have heard her, but then she's not very insistent. A shy little thing. She may have to resort to do-it-herself reproduction.
There she goes again! Eight chirps this time. Maybe she's been working on her seduction routine. But she'd be far wiser to creep back outside where she'd more likely find other geckos. I'm pretty sure she's the only one in here.
I've yet to come up with a name for my visitor, who's pinkish gray, under six inches long. In Latin, it's Hemidactylus frenatus, or "Common House Gecko." A rather uninspired name, sort of like being a "Lesser Egret."
She's not the tame sort who'd climb onto my finger if I invited her, though she might be more friendly if I offered her fruit, baby crickets or cockroaches, her favorite foods. She's welcome to all the cockroaches she can eat, though I'm a little concerned that my anti-cockroach potion—boric acid mixed with milk, dabbed on a bit of aluminum foil—might give her indigestion.
Every night she makes the same effortless trek up the same wall, always stopping halfway up to watch me for a few minutes before disappearing behind the air conditioner. Having read how they defend themselves, by spraying the offender with feces, I'm glad I did my homework before trying to touch her. All I need is gecko poop on my keyboard!