A COUPLE AND FLIES I tend to stare. When in a crowded space, i scan around me endlessly, noting the minutest particulars of my surroundings. I look at the walls, ceilings, windows, doorways, exits. Then I examine the lighting and decor, and if there is any art. A also see the furniture, and whatever they are laden with. I scrutinise the floor, and assess the cleanliness or debris. I observe the people and their movements, then their attire and general appearance, then whatever they are doing and their company. Finally, I note their company and speculate on the relationship between any assorted groups or pairs. So you see, social places can occupy me one hundred per cent. People are interesting. Places are interesting. Every time I lift my head from my book, I look. Its lunch time. Two loud types have decided, most unreasonably, to invade the little nook I was ensconced in, buried in my book. they way they carry on, I am supposed to hear this conversation. Too loud for a conversation between two gentlemen in such proximity that any closer, theyd be making out. Hundreds of thousands. Then millions. Then tens of millions. Growth and progression thrown in. Mortgage and Runda as well. Mentorship. Success. Happiness. Work-life, disposable income and leisure. Before long, i can no longer read, so I pick up my smartphone for internet browsing. Now they are on holidays. Seychelles. Diani. I refuse to raise my head or acknowledge them, even when my order arrives. Confidence tricksters. Quail agents. Ponzi shysters. Too suave by a bit. Glib. I espy a table being vacated in front of me. I am gathering up my things for flight. Then she glides into the place, quite like a swan. Floating, gliding movement. upright gait. Long neck. Delicate bones. Swollen, pouting lips. Spectacles. Red thick frames, to match several accessories on her. Including a discreet clutch held together with a phone in her left hand. Long gorgeous legs, ending in elegant shoes. Heels setting off her legs, and raising her derriere becomingly while lifting a generous bosom. She takes the table I had eyed. Im dismayed. Conmen are now talking mutual funds, stocks and whatnot. Returns annotated with complex decimated percentages. A bubble. I get back to my book. In a minute, I am carried away by the magic on each page, and lose awareness of my unsatisfactory company and surroundings. Ten minutes later, I am vaguely aware of peripheral movement that has been repeated countlessly. I look up slightly, and notice the damsel waving away frantically. Huge ruby-coloured cocktail ring, and bold coloured bracelets. Red nails. Long fingers. Hand waving away all over the space before her. My neck is burning. To ease it, I watch her frenetic flickings of her wrist, then all-arm fences and thrusts. Apparently, she is being tormented by a couple of flies who are partial to her table. Heat from the suns rays beaming in through the window by which she is seated. coupled, no doubt, with sugar from spilt juice, ketchup, honey or coffee.The flies dart swiftly in circles all about her, always landing on the table in front of her, on the clutch lying open, or on the phone. Sometimes on darts onto the sauce or chilli bottles laid before her, or perches on the sugar bowl. Occasionally, they play on her head, surveying her weave with a comical concentration while she scrolls away, unaware that her tormentors are on her person. Before long, however, they are all over her, and she must abandon her texting to pursue these mischievous interlopers. Now she has picked her menu to create a bigger draught and float the flies away. But they come back and carry on their merry fun. Her order arrives. It is a verdant salad with onion rings and sliced tomato arranged in a pattern all round the platter. She retrieves her fork and knife from the napkin in which they are wrapped, and spoons salad dressing upon the leafy mound. The fork pierces a luscious slice of cucumber, and she poises her head to receive the food in her mouth. The flies land on her knife, which is pressed idly to the plate. she raises the knife abruptly, and with it, a few onion rings fly out and land on her phone. The flies are on her forehead. She is using the knife to clear the rings from her phones keypad as the fork delivers the cucumber finally to her mouth.By the time she is chewing, one fly is crawling along her temple towards her ear, while the other dances round the rim of the salad dressing bowl. A flick of her head, and a dark, lustrous mane of her weave frightens the one fly into flight. Ping! The fork raps at the salad bowl. The fly does not budge. She decides, No harm, and proceeds to fork a good bush of salad. The first fly lands on the edge on her plate and taxis towards the salad. Its companion hops over and they begin a speedy perambulation all over her food. She is afraid to make a move, because the salad is delicately balanced en route to her mouth. As soon as she has eaten it, her hand comes down with the swift fury of an avenging angel, causing a sudden, sharp thud, and a brief rattling of things on the table. The flies continue their dance on the window, then descend to the plate. As she delicately delivers another bush of salad mouthwards, the flied land on a tomato slice and begin a frantic mating, accompanied by loud buzzing. In a few seconds, they are done. One flies into the dressing bowl. The other lands on her wrist, and begins to rub the fore, then hind legs together in a canny gesture of provocation. She hits her left wrist with her right wrist. Both flies disappear momentarily. She prepares another bush of salad. On the way to the mouth, both flies suddenly emerge from her weave. As she shovels the food in, a fly lands close by her lip, and I wonder if our beauty just ingested a housefly. She wonders, too, for she is frozen - not chewing, not moving, fork suspended mid air. Then both flies alight on her clutch. After a second, one relocated to a corner of the table, followed by its companion who immediately mounts it amid much delighted buzzing. She has finally lost her composure. She is not eating. We are both watching the contented, insolent flies at the edge of the table. Her eyes are glazed with fury, and her nostrils flare in ominous pulses. A smartly dressed gentleman walks in, beaming in delight. He marches towards her table on athletic, graceful legs. His arms are already outstretched to hug her. She stands up, and collapses in his strong arms. Suddenly, he is not grinning. Her face is buried in his shoulder. Only the jet black weave is visible. But her sobbing is audible. He is stunned. She is distraught. I am enraptured. The flies play on, oblivious to all of us. The conmen yap on, but I cannot hear a word they exchange.
Posted on: Tue, 20 May 2014 14:22:54 +0000
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