FRUIT FLIES

The woman had not been home for three days. She had left in a hurry following her busy work week for a weekend getaway with friends. She had gone home after work to drop off her laptop and to change her clothes. She had grabbed some weekend clothes and left in a hurry.

When her weekend getaway was over on Sunday, she departed for home feeling tired but happy. She laughed and kissed her friends good-bye and thanked them for the fun time. She looked forward to getting home. She would relax in the evening, straighten up her apartment, and prepare herself for the next work week.

On her way back to her apartment, there was an explosion. A bomb had been detonated in the city center. 34 casualties. Men, women, children, workers, tourists. Emergency crews were on the scene. There were crowds and traffic jams. There was chaos. It was difficult getting home. Her clothes were sweaty and dirty.

When she arrived home, she put her key in the door and turned it and entered. The air inside smelled familiar. She dropped her bags by the door. She looked around her apartment, dark and still. She paused. She was exhausted. There were dirty clothes laying around, draped over furniture. There were dirty dishes on the kitchen table. From the days prior to her weekend absence, there was a carton of Chinese food and a half empty bottle of wine.

She looked upon it, still. She was in shock. She felt numb.

She went to the kitchen and got a new bottle of wine from the refrigerator. She opened it and poured herself a glass. She took a slow drink.

She started walking to the bathroom, peeling off her clothes as she went and draping them over chairs and dropping them onto the floor. She took another drink of wine. She turned on the shower and got in. She stood under the warm water.

She got out of the shower and dried off. She wondered if she should turn on the TV. It was so quiet. She took a sip of wine.

She walked into the kitchen and ran the warm water for dishes. She got the water soapy and submerged her hands. The warm water felt good. It was so quiet.

She put fresh sheets on the bed.

Her apartment was almost never that quiet. She wondered again if she should turn on the TV. She took a drink of wine and walked over to the kitchen table and sat down.

The wine was starting to make her sleepy. She was exhausted. She noticed that there were fruit flies buzzing around the table. When she sat down, it disturbed them and now they were in the air. The food and wine she left over the weekend had attracted them. There was nearly a swarm. They were flying in erratic patterns and touching her face. She felt annoyed. She was going to need to kill them.

She felt too tired. She would get up early and get rid of them in the morning. She would clean all the dishes and take out the trash and straighten up. She would open the windows. She knew how to kill them. If she put apple cider vinegar in a bowl resting on the gas stove, the flies would be attracted to both the warmth and the fruit smell. But if she put a touch of dish soap in the vinegar, it would catch them like quick sand and sink them.

The woman took another drink of wine. She put her head on her arm and her eyelids drooped. She started watching the flies. Her eyes fixed on them. They were settling down. As she became still, they became still.

The looked at their small, striped bodies and fragile wings. She wondered what it would be like to look at the world through their minuscule red eyes. What colors and dimensions do they see?

The woman noticed a small fly on the back of another fly. It was a male on a female. The female was zig zagging. The male was chasing. They would separate then come together, separate then come together. They didn’t stop moving. Then the female stopped in a shadow. The male stopped. The woman watched. The male was thrusting slightly against the back of the female. The female was still.

The woman took a sip of wine and put her head back on her arm. The male fruit fly was still thrusting. The male and the female were moving in unison. The woman watched. The female’s wings went up. The wings came down and touched the male’s head. The wings went up. The male touched the female’s wings with his head. The male moved. The female brought her wings down. The female wrapped her wings around the male’s head. The female appeared to be caressing the male with her wings. The male moved. The female was still. The female was bigger and stronger but the male moved and she was still. The male touched her wings again. The female caressed him back again.

The woman was amazed to find herself sitting silently watching this. She knew that when the insects were finished copulating, their bodies would simply separate again mindlessly. And yet she was mesmerized and found it strangely beautiful.

She took a sip of wine. She felt tired and she wondering again if she should turn on the TV or leave it off and go to bed. The small fruit flies were congregating around her glass of wine and she swatted them away. They were flying everywhere and annoying her. She noticed the flies on her table. She noticed them floating on the surface of the wine left in glasses from the nights before. She noticed them on the food. They were everywhere.

In the wine bottle, she saw a couple dozen of them. Some of them were completely motionless and some of them were having spasms as they drown. The flies were attracted to the wine. The woman watched the flies as they drown themselves one by one getting their wings caught in the liquid.

The tired woman rested her heavy head against her arm, watching. She took a drink of wine. She idly picked up a chopstick from the table. She poured the wine with the flies in it onto a plate next to a dry towel. She took the stick and slid it into the liquid and under a struggling fly and rolled the stick until the fly was touching it, then she slowly lifted the stick into the air. She very gently rolled the stick over the towel until the fly was on the dry surface and within moments moving its wings freely again. She repeated that slow movement fly after fly… rolling the stick under them, lifting them out of the liquid, rolling them back onto the dry surface. Tomorrow, when her busy mind filled with other things again, she might kill the rest of the struggling flies, but in that moment she was saving them. As she rescued the struggling flies, she rolled the stick under the listless, floating flies as well, and realized that once they were on the dry towel, they became animate again too. She felt joy watching them all fly away unharmed once more, even the seemingly dead ones.

The woman freed some of the flies only for them to fly back onto the surface of the wine. And she would free them again. She felt unbearably tired.

The woman sat in that position for hours, as the light waned around her. She sat, and saved the flies one by one, until she fell into a deep sleep.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nina Glass is a writer in Brooklyn, NY. Her work has been recognized by no one ever. And yet she persists. Wheatfield Press is proud to publish her forthcoming book of short stories entitled, Absence by Accumulation.