He’s still alive. After five days the fly in our kitchen is still alive. He wants to kill it. I want to somehow transport him out of a window. Of course I don’t know that he is a he. How can I know? Can you sex a fly? He keeps me company, usually sitting on the wall opposite me as I prepare food. Is he dying? Is he getting slower? Has he given in yet? Does he long to go outside?
I was happy there. The anxiety lifted for awhile. We had coffee and then tea. And sat and sat. Doing crosswords, talking, with me with my feet curled up or stretched out onto his chair. We had it all to ourselves downstairs, our peace only interrupted by people coming down for a pee. And unexpected gem of a place. I love the mirrors, the 50s/60s furniture, the collection of mirrors.
I have too much to do. My anxiousness urges me to sort things out, to clear up, to make notes, to order. And then breathe.
It was lovely to see her. She is so complex, so often a surprise to me. Her tenderness, the care she takes with her home and her love. Keep her safe. She is not what she seems and all the more beautiful for it.