The Fly

I stalk the fly, following its plump black body from room to room. It lands on a juice glass, a dining room candle, a ceramic figurine. Nothing I can swat it on. It’s a wily specimen, a veteran of the chase. I appreciate the challenge. I tell the fly as much. I taunt the fly.

“Come get some of this,” I say aloud, two-fisting the swatter like a samurai with his sword. “You’re going to die, fly, you just don’t know why.”

I say this for the benefit of my seven-month-old, who tends to expose his two bottom teeth when Dad gets excited.

“The henchman cometh,” I say, becoming Bulging Eyes Man as I pass my son’s playpen in the living room. He grins and drools and kicks his stubby legs. He loves Bulging Eyes Man. I love his bald little head.

The fly heads for the basement staircase and I follow, deciding to pursue it down and get rid of the pesky bugger once and for all. The key is keeping the fly zeroed in until it lands, lest it dart for the ceiling or sneak behind a curtain. So I’ve got the fly dead in my sights when I trip over my son’s plaything at the top of the stairs.

Headfirst I go, twisting my body in some kind of instinctual move to protect my face and testicles and kneecaps. The crown of my skull punches the wall, pinching my spine, and then I’m sideways, legs knocking off the opposite wall and flopping down below me. I end up on my belly, three-quarters of the way down, facing up, chin on carpeted stair. I hear my son giggling at my antics.

There is no pain, no movement. The fly lands on the back of my hand, which rests at eye level on the stair above. The fly stands there for several moments as if waiting to confirm a truth it already knows. We share a tragic secret, the fly and I.

I try to remain strong for my son. To think clearly. It’s just after noon now; his mother will be home from the elementary school by four. Unless she has a meeting I don’t know about. Or decides to swing by the market. He drained his last formula bottle about ninety minutes ago, although he’s been going through a growth spurt and will soon begin shouting from hunger or lack of stimulation, or both. I know the boy well. The playpen should hold him.

The fly rubs its front legs together. Takes a few steps through the blond hairs on my hand. Stops. Plunges its stinger into my flesh. I do not feel this, and I tell the fly as much.

“I do not feel you, Mr. Fly! Fly away now, into the sky!”

My son’s giggling drifts down the staircase, a sweet, sweet sound.

Andy Henion's fiction has been published in a couple dozen online and print magazines, including Pindeldlyboz and The Circle.

Email: Andy Henion

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