Now, I have no problem in general with flies. How could one.
But this fly is being ridiculous. For he is flying in an erratic circle in the middle of my living room, with no evident purpose whatsoever.
Don’t get me wrong. I could understand a fly zipping about in hopes of returning to nature, if one can use that word for Manhattan. I can even understand a fly narrowing in on the scent of something delicious or better yet, pungent. This would be reasonable.
But this little bugger, if I may use the word, isn’t going anywhere at all.
I’m taking notes for the book, and moving forward on my characters and the narrative threads, and here’s this doo-dah exhibiting the most untoward behavior.
“Meaning,” I say to the fly. “Without meaning, you’re just being silly.”
He ignores me, and is continuing to fly nowhere repeatedly as we speak. If he would at least land, he should make me less dizzy.
“If you wipe your feet, you may land,” I tell him.
He makes another circle.
I return to my characters. None of whom behaves as he does, or I’d kick them out of the story with no further ado.
And on that note, I have just deleted a character for accomplishing nothing, or as I shall in future refer to it, being a silly fly.
Ah. The fly has just flown away.
I feel mildly inhospitable.