Drone
by Salvatore Difalco
A fly flew into Diego’s mouth. He spluttered and waved his arms around, disgusted. One hundred Fahrenheit in the shade and the flies buzzed undeterred. They were tough. He rolled down the car window and spat. Must have been a dead body nearby. Flies like dead bodies. Not even funny, what with the maggots and so forth. Was anything more disgusting? He had an hour to kill before his grandmother finished with her appointment. She was getting a perm. That took time. He’d agreed to drive her to the salon on this one occasion. His sister, Marissa, who normally took her, had gout. She looked awful. Gout was an awful thing. She got it from eating too many peanuts or something, Diego wasn’t sure. He didn’t care for Marissa. Ever since their parents died in a car crash five years ago, she’d become a sourpuss. Yes, she was older, but she had no right to boss him around and belittle him the way she did all the time. He could do nothing right in her eyes. He couldn’t even lift a spoon without enraging her. Once their grandmother passed—she’d moved in with them after the car accident—and they sold the family home, he’d move away from Marissa and the city and do his own thing. His grandmother would be ninety in three years. Her clock was ticking. It would be sad, but it had to happen eventually—it would. Flies buzzed around Deigo’s head. He swatted at them but without much effect. He rolled up his window. He’d read how flies lived in a slowed-down time frame. From their perspective, humans moved like giant sloths. Still, you could catch one now and then using misdirection. That was true of many things. Misdirection worked. Time seemed to pass as slowly as was possible. He shut his eyes and listened to the ambient street noise, soothing save for the dogged flies, humming away. He switched on the radio and tried to find a station not playing hip hop or annoying female pop singers. They all sounded the same. One fly in particular persisted, repeatedly landing on his cheek. After several of these contacts, Diego slapped at the fly but caught himself with a percussive wallop. His cheek smarted from the blow. All these damn flies. Had to be a dead body in the vicinity. No doubt about it. Maybe a squirrel, or a raccoon. He checked his watch and started. Geez, two hours had passed? He checked his watch again. He must have fallen asleep. Two hours? Where was his grandmother? She should have been done by now. What was she doing? An ambulance slowly pulled up to the beauty parlor, lights and sirens not engaged. Never a good sign. The flies swarmed around Diego’s car. There were so many of them. They blackened his windshield. He couldn’t see out. He could hear them massing. The sound grew deafening. They covered his car like a writhing black sheet.
Salvatore Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada
