The fly slips into the apartment a little after noon.
I set my purse down, slip off my shoes and sigh. Newly-moved on to the third floor, where I have discovered that I am devoid of scissors, nail clippers, decent lighting, or salt and pepper, a fly swatter is also unaccounted for.
I close the door.
“Well I’m not going to feed ya,” I mutter.
Earlier in the day I’d been trying my neighborhood wireless signals, hoping, fruitlessly, that someone’s password was, indeed, “password”.
I report without satisfaction that none of my neighbors are that stupid.
It’s lonely at the top.
But now I have company.
The fly bounces off the walls, against the shadowed ceiling, looking for an exit.
I lower my chin, make menacing eyes at the fly. “I shall be forced to kill you,” I say, ominously.
The fly crawls up the wall and says nothing.
The third floor, a dim and cave-like place with an angled ceiling, offers little escape. I search for something to roll up and kill him with.
I search in vain.
Dejectedly, I stand in the middle of the loft and sigh. “Then again, maybe you’ll stay for dinner? How much can you eat anyway, am I right?”
The fly buzzes, heads toward the door, the filtered light streaming through its glass and onto a puddle on the floor, settles on the light switch. I walk toward it, already working on the story I will tell of how I stalked and caught a fly with my bare hands…
And there, under the fly, I discover the dimmer switch.
I reach toward it, slide the tiny lever upward.
And the room explodes with light.
Smiling, I open the door, and the fly escapes, to buzz another day.