One angry, muggy day I punched a hole in the wall. I blamed the fly that decided my kitchen was an acceptable alternative to the unbearable out-of-doors. He lived simply enough and didn’t mind sharing with me. Soon he was usurping my dinners, getting big and fat on prime rib. That night, though, he went too far when he devoured half of my chocolate cake. Despite his newly acquired girth, he was a quick fly, darting around the kitchen, landing only to gleefully watch inertia overtake me as I spun in concentric circles. Bulbs splintered and screamed, caffeinated mugs hovered and jetted, papers folded themselves into airplanes to escape.
Still the fly lived.
I stared at the hole and wondered if I might lure him in there and plaster it shut. Murderous thoughts took hostage of my patience. He smartly disappeared as I settled in to watch the news. But as Letterman wound up for his opening, the fly was back, buzzing around the TV. Louder and louder, faster and faster he buzzed. I knew what the cake thief wanted and I wasn’t giving in again. Finally he landed and crept across the guests’ faces, sucking the sallow pixels until I could take no more. I flipped to Leno. My fly settled in on the armchair beside me.