Twenty-Four Hours

They say that a fly lives for twenty-four hours, but I don't think that's true because one kept me company for several days last week. Three, to be exact.  No matter how many gentle wind currents I artificially created with magazines hastily pulled from the recycling bin, I could not get the little bugger to take flight through an open window. After a lifetime of squishing whatever critter was bothering me, all of a sudden, I couldn't.  This one hung out quietly, minding his own business and never once getting in my way. Every time I thought about taking a newspaper to him, I just couldn't do it.  It seemed cruel.

Each day, I would walk into the apartment and within minutes, I'd catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.  It was like he was saying Hey, what up, man?  A long enough appearance to let me know that he's still around, but that he'd give me my space. With each passing day, I'd see him flying closer to the ground, his flight pattern just a little less zippy than the day prior.  I wondered if I should feed him somehow.  Ridiculous, I know.

I still haven't found him. I'm feeling rather sad about it.  He got stuck in this little hole of an apartment, away from all his friends, and expired somewhere all by his lonesome surrounded by nothing more than stale Manhattan apartment air.  It would have been so much better if he were outdoors, somewhere peaceful, like the Sculpture Garden at MoMA.

I'm not sure why I'm feeling sad about a fly, of all things.  Part of me hopes that he doesn't show up in my dustpan a week from now, that he somehow snuck out quietly into the hallway and onto the elevator, back out to the open city.  Because, you know, they say that a fly lives for twenty-four hours, but that's clearly not true.

Friday.  21 June.  2013.