(originally posted on October 27, 2011)
Hubby was out for a beer with his buddies the other night, and I was typing away at my computer.
It was after 11 pm and I was already yawning and rubbing my eyes like a big baby, wondering if I should go to bed or take some more advantage of the precious time I had to myself. I heard the key in the lock downstairs. Oh good, I thought. Dilemma solved. I’m going to bed.
I heard the door close, then the familiar shuffle of his feet, followed by the eight thumps that it takes to climb the first flight of stairs.
And then an unfamiliar female voice. Sweet. Giggling. Of the lightest hue. Acting as if she felt at home. In my house.
I stopped typing, feeling disoriented.
It took me about thirty seconds to realize it was my husband’s business partner, who had obviously stopped by the office downstairs to pick up some documents, and his wife happened to be with him. Why he would stop by after 11 pm was beyond me, but people who live in nocturnal houses should not throw stones.
I felt disembodied. In a nanosecond, I was sucked into a microcosmic shrinkerator and spewed out at the speed of light as a future fly on the walls of my own home.
This is what it will be like after I am gone.
A Friday night, perhaps warm, perhaps cool. The key will turn in the lock, perhaps once, perhaps twice. There will be a shuffle of feet after the door is closed, perhaps the sound of high heels on the tiles. A gentle female voice will be heard, followed by the warm low mumblings of a male response. They will take turns murmuring softly while the feet that carry them climb upstairs. Eight steps. Sixteen. Twenty-four. The second door will open, and close again.
The fly on the wall will start to squirm.
They will have a glass of wine, probably red, dry. Jewelry will be removed from hands and arms, and go clinkety-clink as it is put down. A tie will be left on the arm of the sofa in the living room, and shoes kicked off carelessly in the hallway. The soft murmurs will continue in the dimmed light, as two bodies do a silent dance undressing, their mouths finishing off the wine, one of them leaving a trace of lipstick on the long-stemmed glass. Lights in the hallway, the kitchen, and the living room will be switched off, and the bedroom door will close for the night with a single squeak of finality.
The fly on the wall will be left outside, having given it all up. Her wings will have taken her elsewhere, probably straight into the mouth of chaos that she craved so badly. Her insect feet will be sticky from jumping around dung heaps and honey pots, like she wanted, and she will have developed the compound eyes of a visionary, just the way she planned. Her flight will have explored new paths, and her buzzing mouth spun multiple new yarns. This one narrative, this abandoned thread of her life, will remain behind a closed bedroom door, forever hidden from her view.