I Heard a Fly Die When I Was Buzzed
It was hot. Windows were open. Fans were on. I lay in my underwear across the bed. I was sweating.
The hum of the fan provided a constant against the sounds of the night. There was a siren, then a dog, all lost and found within the ebb and flow of an angry wind and a head grown heavy with work left undone and beers left empty.
There was a cry, a light, an exchange that would never be remembered and then I was standing over my son as he continued his slumber seemingly uninterrupted.
Enter the fly.
The buzz was loud and it followed me back to my bed. It played against the fan like a trumpet player that hated the beat. It was in stereo and the sound made the heat feel hotter, the night feel darker, and the pending morning all the earlier.
Then it stopped, and I fell asleep beneath the spin of sudden silence.