Fly, My Bedfellow:

Lindsea Bevington

A housefly flew in through my window some spring-times ago. Today is the anniversary of the day I lost track of his arrival. We haven't spoken much. Just the occasional, "your turn to do the dishes. I cooked." Sometimes he does this thing where he giggles at nothing and then waits me for to ask, "what's so funny?" But once I inquire he’ll say something like, “oh, nothing.” It riles me up inside but I love it, and he knows it. 

We’ve grown predictable to one another, like a fork beside a knife. At first I found comfort in it, it was just us—indoors, away from the nuances of cafés and first dates. But something changed. He changed. Perhaps it was the whatnot of domesticated life, or the obligation to make love when clearly neither of us wanted to. All those nights lying awake sharing a bed blinking under our shut eyelids, pretending to be asleep: beside me dreamed a stranger.

“Have you done all your chores?” he asks, looking up from his newspaper, “yes,” I respond meekly. I wait for his approval, a simple, ‘all right then.’ But it’s worse, he says nothing. “It better be spotless,” this time he doesn’t look up, “I’m having guests over this evening.” I lower my head and wait to be dismissed.

It’s this evening and the guests arrive. I’m not supposed to get in the way of their fun so I stay in the bedroom to cut paper into snowflakes. I can smell them smoking with the windows shut. I can hear them breaking dishes against the wall. I accidentally cut too far into one of my snowflakes when the silverware drawer falls to the floor. The fly punts open the door and I already know what I’m being summoned for. We play this fun game called ‘find out where I hid the fish head.’ When I find the fish head I have to put on an apron and do a little dance-singing-duet with the fish head as a puppet. The fly and his friends love it. 

But this time with a mouth gargled in booze he rasps something unexpected, "get your mandolin out! The boys wanna hear some tunes." I put my snowflakes in a safe place and quiver my way to the living room, dragging my mandolin behind me. The floor is covered in shattered glass and soot. Wallpaper falls from the wall. "Sing!" the fly shouts, "sing us—" he belches—"a song!" 

I begin to strum a little off key and hum a little flat, "this one's an original," I begin: "The sun no longer shines on me. Oh, how hairless and broken I am. The neighbors no longer hear my plea. Oh, I’m served like the shank of a ham… served like the shank," I fade out, “of a ham.” They sit staring, silent. A single tear falls to the mandolin. “Wow,” the fat friend declares, “that was really bad.” “Yeah, just awful,” the fly agrees as they all start booing me, “you’ve spoiled the evening. Everyone! Out!” 

The guests break a few more dishes before they leave. It’s just us now, “you’ve made a fool out of me with that sappy song.” I put the mandolin down and grab the fly swatter above the mantelpiece. “Put that down!” he shouts. “No!’ I raise the swatter to the fly, “I should’ve done this years ago!” and swat it.