On a lazy sunday afternoon, I sat at my kitchen table, my feet resting on another chair as I painted my nails. There’s something very therapeutic about painting your nails; hypnotic almost, as the brush glides from cuticle to tip, this nail conforming to the nail before it.
On my second coat, a fly came into my peripheral vision, rather ruining the relaxed atmosphere as it buzzed around frantically, much like I do when I’m twenty minutes late and I’ve lost my keys.
I could’ve left it well enough alone but it bothered me, so I batted it away. The buzzing stopped so, satisfied with the refound peace, I went back to the task at hand, only to find that the fly was stuck to my nail. Still a little alive it tried to fly off with its one free wing, and I attempted to help by frantically waving my arm around, but to no effect. I tried flicking it off, but its free wing attached itself to the other nail and ripped. The little thing had pretty much given up, but I couldn’t. Mainly because I still had a fly stuck to my nail, but partly, also, because it was so undignified an end. I gently dragged my nail on the edge of the table and tried nudging it back to life. As you might imagine, this was not terribly effective.
What an awful way to go. Imagine, you’re frantically looking for your tiny fly keys, not even thinking about the importance of life, when suddenly you’re hit by a sticky nail, and then partly torn apart, surrounded by nothing of the world’s beauty, but by the more seasonal rainy-day grey I recently purchased, the fumes of which engulf you, as you are bashed from one grey sticky wall to the next.
I wish to pay my respects to this fly of whom I knew nothing. May your last memories be of the exotic scenery of my living room, and not of your unsightly and drably decorated end.
letsrubricate 