COUNTING FLIES
by NEIL SWAAB
It was a hot summer. The air was thick and oppressive and maintained its own presence in the room. Through slatted blinds, the afternoon sun penetrated the walls, leaving behind a pattern of golden stripes which seemed to invade every corner of the small, stuffy apartment.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked, sleepily, her fingers caressing his shirtless chest, tracing invisible circles through the dark masses of hair that covered his pale torso.
"How much I hate summer," he responded dryly. His eyes were focused on the light fixture above and the black specks inside, as he counted silently to himself: Forty one, forty-two, forty-three...
"Go back to bed, it'll be over in a month," she advised, burying her face in the pillow. He fumbled for a cigarette he'd left on the nightstand, and quickly lit it. The nicotine tasted like candy in his mouth. "I thought you were quitting,"
"Tomorrow," he said as she groaned in reply. Taking another drag off the cigarette, he resumed counting under his breath. "This goddamn place is infested. There's flies everywhere."
"Don't leave the window open anymore," she sighed.
"I've got to. It's too hot otherwise." He paused for a minute, reflecting. "I think it's from leaving food out anyway." He reached over and flicked the ashes from his cigarette into a cup on the nightstand. The water was already blackened from previous butts. "It doesn't matter though," he added, "I've been seeing spiders around lately. They'll eat the flies." He looked at the cigarette, admiring the fiery glow at the tip. "Pretty soon we'll have our own little ecosystem here."
"Sounds fantastic."
"Yeah," he agreed, bringing the cigarette back to his lips, inhaling it's sweet nectar. Somewhere outside children were laughing. "First flies," he continued, "and then spiders, and then..." A puzzled look spread across his face. "What eats spiders?"
She let out a small, almost unnoticeable sigh. "I don't know. Puppies?"
"Yeah. Eventually this place will be overrun by puppies. And then Chinese business men; I hear it's a delicacy there," he joked, looking for a smile to appear on her face but none did. Instead she retreated under the covers, engulfing herself in fleecy warmth. Looking at her huddled body, he wondered how she could be so cold in the summer.
A fly buzzed past, singing its monotonous song like a broken record. It hovered over the bed, dancing, side to side, up and down before landing on the nightstand, next to the cup that sat atop it, and the single ticket which lay, like an open sore, on it's dark wooden surface.
Taking one last puff, he released the cigarette to its watery grave. "One more month," he said, his voice already miles away.
• • •
Voodoo Gooroo: July 3- July 9, 2001
Doyle: Part IV
BY CHRISTOPHER CURRY
To Be Noble
BY ELEANOR ROOS
Fuckaround: Part III
BY ERIC MESSENGER
• • •
EMAIL • ABOUT • WHERE CAN I PARK MY CAR IN BROOKLYN? • ARCHIVES • SUBMISSIONS • DIET AD COLLECTION • COOL! MORE ART • FLASH-O-MATIC • TODD'S RAMBLINGS • REVIEWS • NEW! MUSIC DOWNLOADS • THE CROSSED WIRE • HOME
