Sum-mer-t-i-m-e … And the livin’ ain’t e-e-e-asy! For us, or for flies.
Typical scenario: I scream; Himself swats; fly dies.
Even worse: I scream; Himself zaps; fly sizzles, frizzles, and dies. Horrible. But ... Have you ever met a fly that wouldn’t die? Have you? Have you? Huh, huh, huh?
The other day, a teenaged fly sailed through the window. How did I know it was a teenager? Attitude. It swaggered around as if it owned the joint, thinking it was immortal. I almost thought it was, too.
I’m not brave enough to kill one of those big, red-eyed, buzzy bastards. Besides, its compound eyes can see me coming faster than I can swat at it with a dish towel, a rolled-up newspaper, or a bug zapper. I also hate the pop! of its connection with the zapper’s electronic mesh. Horrible, horrible, horrible.
I sometimes think of the 1986 terror classic, The Fly. Pretty good movie, actually. Pretty scary, too. Watching it probably worsened my fear of flies, so when this particular teenaged fly commandeered the window sill, I knew this was all-out war.
Grabbing a paper towel, I lunged. It flew away. I inched closer in an effort to squash it. It was too quick. Sort of like the men I used to date.
Using cunning, stealth, and a flanking maneuver (ditto re: above sentence), I compressed its writhing body between the window and the sill. I lifted the paper towel. It crawled away.
(“What’s with this fly???” I thought. “Is it wearing body armor???”)
Seizing the opportunity, I again trapped it between the window and the sill. The squeezing and the squishing are too distasteful to relate, but its dénouement was assured. To the victor, go the spoils! I’d vanquished the Lord of the Flies.
© Nicole Parton, 2019
