The Fly & I

I was raised with a taste for the finer things. Smooth sheets, good wine, ironed garments, orange juice with real pulp, pedicures and manicures, air conditioning, massages -- just about every creature comfort you can imagine. So here I sit, the happy passenger in my cream-colored leather recliner, my pink cell phone at the ready, my water bottle uncorked, my laptop computer ensconced in my lap, my dog sleeping at my feet, and the world spread out before me. Or at least Quebec.

And then this fly, this miniscule flying terrorist, this winged messenger of misery, this makes-you-want-to-scratch-all-over thing, this counterpart of the hog-squealers in Deliverance the movie, this purveyor of disquiet, this 1 gram of pure agony, this insect! decides to have some fun with me.

He circles my head and lands on my ear. I slap my head viciously as he dances away, no doubt giggling a little fly snigger. I’ve knocked my hearing aid out of my ear. It slides down between the seat and the window. I retrieve it, but the battery has fallen out. I get up, make my way to my purse in the back and dig in it for a new battery.

Meanwhile, the fly circles the room. He’s watching me; I’m watching him.

I put the hearing aid back in my sore ear, sit down and re-buckle my seat belt. Then I remember my computer. It’s on the couch, next to my purse. I unbuckle my seat belt, make my wobbly way back to the couch, grab the computer and sit back down.

The fly returns. He buzzes my computer; I slam my hand into the screen and it goes black. When I re-boot, everything I’ve written is gone. Saving has never been a strong point with me. I start again. I’m trying to remember what I was talking about when he lands on my toe. I use the computer to slam my toe and end up with red toenail polish on its new white cover. My toe starts to throb.

Now the dog is barking at the cursing, which being a lady, I haven’t included here.

“What the hell is going on?” says John, momentarily looking away from the skinny road he’s trying to navigate.

“There’s a fly,” says I.

“Yeah, and?” he says.

He just doesn’t get it.

Betty