The Fly

There’s a fly in my wine.

Just a small one.

A fruit fly.

I contemplated drinking it anyway.

It was eight dollar wine from Fred Meyers.

The fly didn’t make much of a difference to me.

I was almost drunk.

I could kill this glass

And pour another.

Get drunk

And write.

But the fly,

He did the strangest thing.

He started flapping its wings,

Keeping himself afloat.

Then he turned onto his back

and started to do the backstroke.

He blew wine out of its mouth like a fountain.

He noticed me staring at him.

He flew up the edge of the glass,

Stopped and perched.

He said,

‘Hey Chester!

Why are you such a cheap ass??

You couldn’t of spent a few more bucks

And gotten us some better shit?’

I told him that I didn’t know that he would be gracing me with his presence tonight

And that I was broke as shit.

I didn’t have the luxury of getting drunk off of better wine.

It was only the bathwater of flies for me .

For now,

Until I made it.

Then,

I’d really splurge on the good shit.

‘Well damn Chester, when are you going to make it?’

He asked me

And then he backflipped off of the edge of my wine glass,

doing a perfect dive back into my cheap ass wine.

He popped back up to the surface.

Spitting out the wine like a fountain again.

He kicked his feet,

Doing the doggy-paddle,

Swimming back and forth.

‘I suppose I haven’t made it yet because

I haven’t really started.

I will though!

I’ll commit!

I’ll work hard!

I’ll think!

I have it in me,

I’m pretty sure...'

‘Well I hope I live long enough to see that happen pal’

I searched for my bong,

took a hit.

‘Hey bud, blow some of that smoke in this wine glass for me?’

‘Sure’

I gently blew my smoke in the wine glass.

Filling it up.

He inhaled it.

All of it.

Blue dream.

That was the name of the weed my roommates had grown.

Now in the lungs of this fruit fly in my wine.

He coughed

And through his cough he said,

‘Well you better get started.'

He kept coughing.

‘Good shit?’

‘Good shit’ he said.

‘You’re not going to live forever you know?’

‘yeah … I know.’ I said.

I looked down at my feet.

‘Life is short pal.'

He said to me,

‘It passes quickly

And if you don't start making things happen for yourself,

It’ll never happen’

Holy shit.

What a wise fly.

‘Hey?’ I asked him

‘Sup?

‘How long do fruit flies live for anyways?’

His eyes got big.

Boy were his eyes red.

He was stoned

And probably drunk.

He was just like me.

‘We live to be about 50’

‘50 years??’

I asked him.

He rolled his eyes at me.

‘You’re either stupid or drunk Chester’

‘Probably both’ I said quietly.

‘We live 50 days, on average’

‘Jesus, i figured y’all lived for about 5 minutes.'

‘Nah man, you humans are always assuming shit about us flys',

He said.

‘That’s fair…

so how old are you Mr fly?'

He stuck his chest out and said,

‘Today is my 50th birthday!

That's why were partying!’

‘Oh no shit??

Happy birthday bro!’

He was standing on the edge of the glass again.

He bowed and said,

‘Thank you good sir.'

He smiled a great big smile at me.

His eyes were alive.

Happy.

‘Soooo how much longer do you have then??’

I said, realizing what his words meant.

‘What time is it??’

He asked in a panic.

I looked down at my phone.

I laughed and said,

‘Dude! It’s 4:20!

I swear I see it every da-!

I stopped.

I had looked up

And there he was.

Floating upside down.

Dead.

In my wine.

My friend,

The fly.

‘This one is for your mr fly’

I rose my glass,

In a toast.

In the memory of a good fly.

A wise fly.

And I chugged it down.

Fly and all.

I was now,

happily drunk.

It was finally time to get started.