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Mr. Fly, I’m Serious

Dylan was lying around for many hours late into the day spread eagle naked in bed with the patterned duvet twisted voluptuously round his middle like a puffy loin cloth and a bunch of pillows highly piled upon his face. He offered up the occasional loud sigh feeling sorry for himself while nursing a hangover. Dylan then began to call my name in piteous tones several times till graciously I appeared. “What is it, darling,” I inquired in my nicest I love you so much and I’m your nurse voice. “Fly,” came the muffled reply from a face buried beneath pillows and pain. I resisted the instinct to roll some eyes and set my attention with an elegance of speed to the audible languid sound of invisible buzzing. The buzzing of flies is by nature both relentless and annoying. I love life and living creatures but my love stops pretty much short of flies. In the absence of a fly swatter, I grabbed a discarded t-shirt to use for whip and kill maneuvers. The fly was hidden and moving in among the window’s many curtain folds and it buzzed with persistent interminability. I tried for several minutes unsuccessfully to cajole it into sight so I could kill it. “Mr. Fly,” I said in a bold low voice devoid entirely of nonsense, “Come out.” Dylan giggled from beneath his pillow pile. Ignoring him I said again more sternly, “Mr. Fly, I’m serious.” The fly paid me zero mind, remained with a casual confidence completely hidden and continued buzzing. “I like how the fly should respond to you,” Dylan said, “only when your voice is deep.” “Well!” I said, “You must mean business. Animals are like kids. They listen only to men. They don’t take women seriously.” Dylan giggled again. I gazed for a meaningful moment at the pile of pillows where a face should be, gave the project up and sauntered huffily out of the room. Dylan can take care of his own damned fly, I don’t care how hung over that motherfucker is.

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