The fly


I heard two flies behind my curtain. It sounded as if they were going at it. The violent vibrations of their wings suggesting rough sex. One came out, whizzing and whirling past me; charging hard and slamming into the wall and sometimes the mirror. Was this a suicide attempt? If it was, it was persistent. There were times when the fly hit the wall… silence, and I hoped that it had succeeded, but two seconds later the wings would start up again.

I finally began to understand why he did what he did. His lover laid on the floor, flapping her wings and unable to fly. The flaps grew slower and slower until they were no more. He watched as it happened. His little fly heart breaking, seeing no point in living without her. How romantic and tragic. Romeo, Juliet and Shakespeare would be proud.

I awoke the next morning and found him next to my bed. He succeeded. He was somewhere having dead dreams about them being in Paris, flying over the Eiffel tower and resting on the stinkiest blue cheese they could find.


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