On a porch in some forgettable suburban neighborhood the sun beats down on an abandoned glass of Chardonnay. A humble fruit fly lounges within, absorbing the acidic bouquet. He alternates the twitch of his legs, sending ripples of burgundy lapping against delicate crystal.
If one listens carefully, a faint hum can be heard, even amongst so many wind rustled leaves. A small dark blurr zips over above the wine glass. Slowly, the bloated fruit fly rotates in his pool until he’s facing a second fly, now perched on the rim. “Hello, Charley.” His guest supplies.
“You know me?” Charley asks dreamily. The second fly doesn’t respond, only meticulously rubbing his nervous front legs before asking a question of his own.
“Bit of a lightweight are we?”
“Hmm,” Charley hums contentedly, warmed by boose and summer. “What a pretty spell we’re having.”
“Indeed,” Says the guest, “but one mustn’t stay forever.”
“No...” Charley agrees, “But wouldn’t that be nice.” Another gentle breeze blows by, leaves tremble, and a child laughs in the distance.
“It’s time to go.” A gentle reminder that he’d outstayed his welcome in this warm, comfortable moment. The present is such a fleeting thing, and it’s time to move on.
Charley’s leg gave another involuntary kick. “But you hadn’t answered my question.”
“Which one?” asked the guest, “You always seem to have so many.”
Charley watched a drop of condensation gracefully droop from the glass, and wondered at how so much of his world could be reflected in such a tiny bead. “How do you know me?” He asks sleepily.
“You knew me yesterday.” The guest replied.
Charley sighed, “But not today.”
“No,” Said the guest, “and certainly not tomorrow.”
The warm pleasant fuzz charley had thought so comforting consumed him, blurring his vision and numbing his limbs. “Give me a moment and I’ll fly up to join you.”
“You can’t.” Murmurs the guest, his voice tinged with regret.
Charley began to feel very peculiar. “Well, why not?”
“Oh, Charley… “ He sounded so forlorn,”Because they’re gone.”
“Curiose” Charley wondered, drifting, “They were there a moment ago.” And indeed as charley spun ever so slowly through the red, his wings bob alongside him, detached. “That’s funny...What do you call a fly without wings?” He inquired, his tone roughened by the nervous edge of his words.
“An eye I suppose.” The guest said somberly, watching as six legs slowly became two.
“Not even that.” Charley says, quietly watching his world darken to a colourless tingle. “I think I’m ready to go now.”
“I’m afraid you’ve waited too long, you’ve missed your chance.”
The featureless smudge, didn’t reply.
The fruit fly rubbed his legs together in rapid succession, and took off into the air, the delicate buzz of his wings barely audible beneath rustling leaves. “Such a pretty spell we’re having.”
He said this to no one in particular.
