The Duelling Flies

I am lying on the sofa watching two flies as they fight in my living room. Not with pistols or swords, or in a ring on the kitchen table, you understand, but in an invisible aerial dance to the death.

Too be honest, I’m not even sure why they are fighting. There is no saccharine sweet leftovers to dispute, or the sticky fingerprints of children to devour. Just as I am whiling away the afternoon on the sofa, so too are they, just fighting.

For a long while they don’t actually make contact, but maintain a distance between each other. They appear to be sparring like boxers. But then there is a tremendous whhhhiiizzzzzzzzzzzz and one brave bully darts at the other, a little black blur against the primrose yellow wall paint. The other fly, I’ll call him Bob to keep this simple, so Bob darts away from the speeding Michael (indulge me here), narrowly avoiding smishing himself into the side of a chair.

The near death experience seems to have startled Bob somewhat, who has consequently disappeared. As a spectator I’m beginning to become worried that:
a) Bob has smished himself and therefore
b) There is now just a mildly annoying fly distracting me from my reading.

Don’t ask why one fly is distracting and two flies are entertaining, they just are.

But anyway, so just as I’m beginning to mourn the loss of Bob (and my source of entertainment) when he makes a hair raising ambush on the unsuspecting Michael from under the dishcloth. Incidentally I think Michael too thought his adversary had finally got the message and fucked off out of his territory.

So catching Michael with his proverbial pants down, Bob and him began this aggressive buzzing, chasing each other around in a bigger, more ferocious black blur than before. It almost resembles the death roll of an aeroplane, but they separate before hitting the terracotta tiled floor and recommence this bizarre duelling again and again and again.

Then, after several minutes they fly off. Personally I think Michael found better things to do with his time; found an open window or a female fly he liked the look of, or the gruesomely mouldering carcass of a sparrow that would obviously be much more fun for a fly.

Bob on the other hand, eventually drowned himself in my wine glass. I found him, but only once I had reached the bottom.

Dammit.