The Fly

3:10 PM, July 31, Foncebadon, Monte Irago Albergue, Attic, Bed 1

Ryan stared at the ceiling, waiting.

It wasn’t like her to wait for so long to call him after a fight. Sure, names had been called and feelings had been hurt; but this wasn’t as bad as it has been. To Ryan, the severity of this fight was almost comforting.

The room was dark—had been for two hours now—except for the rectangle of white confirming the full moon and a rectangle of yellow light from the street. The yellow box splashed light onto the ceiling, forming a sandbox of sorts directly above Ryan’s head. It illuminated the wooden planks in the faux design, as well as a small spider’s web forming a triangle with the wall and ceiling a little bit to the left.

The moonlight, though, crashed through the window and scattered over Ryan’s bed. On this particular night, the moonbeams were so strong that they comically washed out half of Ryan’s face while further darkening the other; the forceful beams revealed his hand that held the house phone while they concealed the hand that held his cell phone.

Perhaps she’s hurt! Ryan rationalized. Maybe she got into a car accident when she was driving and crying! He flipped open his cell phone, creating one more rectangle of light in the room, and quickly thumbed the “4” for her speed dial number. But as soon as “Calling…” flashed across the screen, his thumb red-phoned the call, dropping the call with his hope. She would have called if she needed me.

At that thought, a fly landed on his knee and started crawling in a circle. Ryan jerked his knee causing the fly to quickly circle the air before landing again on Ryan’s wrist. A flick by Ryan and the fly was once again lost to the darkness between the bed and the ceiling. Ryan ceased breathing, remaining perfectly still, trying to sense where the fly was moving. Ten seconds passed, and then another. Ryan relaxed his chest and resumed his breathing, and he saw the fly crawling across his now lowered chest.

Ryan’s fury was unleashed on the fly. Legs kicking, phone-wielding arms swinging, torso bouncing—Ryan’s effort to rid himself of the tiny insect were reminiscent of an angry beetle stuck on his back, trying desperately to flip back over. A very, very angry beetle.

Before long, frustration and exhaustion took over, and Ryan relaxed into his pillow to see that the fly was now walking an S-shape on the ceiling.

It was then that a thought occurred to Ryan. What if, in his successful assault on the fly, he had accidentally dropped her call? He flipped open his cell phone to discover nothing—no missed calls—beyond the tropical fish quietly swimming and blowing bubbles across the screen. As he lifted his other arm to check the land line, a glint from the ceiling caught his eye.

The fly, having taken off at the wrong angle, had careened into the sticky web which now vibrated quickly in the still air. As the pulse became damped, Ryan could see that the fly was trying desperately to escape. It pulled in one direction, moving the web only a fraction of an inch, and then it pulled in another direction, hoping for more success. It then cycled through every move it seemed to know, making a very, very angry buzzing sound in hopes of freeing itself.

Before long, frustration and exhaustion took over, and the fly seemed to resign itself for the moment to being a prisoner of the web. It was then that the spider made herself visible. Scurrying from the darkness into the streetlight, the spider rushed across the ceiling onto her web and toward the fly.

Ryan noted that the fly must have sensed its doom; the moment that the spider’s first leg made contact with the web, the fly uselessly buzzed and fluttered with increased vigor. No quicker had the spider reached the fly than the fly ceased sound and motion. Ryan could imagine what had happened in his head: the fly, belly up in the web with it’s wings stuck, stared as the spider ran up, raising her head and crashing two fangs deep into the fly. It was over quickly for the fly, Ryan reasoned. Perhaps that was a good thing.

While the spider set about packaging and preparing her meal for a more proper dinnertime, Ryan checked his phone. It had already been two hours. He let his cell-phoned arm fall perpendicular to his body, so that his body would have looked symmetrical, had the moon chosen to light him properly.

And Ryan stared at the ceiling, waiting.