Fly In The Fridge

Sometimes, every once in a long while, I’ll go to the refrigerator for some milk or just to browse, and a mosquito eater or a fly will venture in. Not wanting to kill the invasive pest, I’ll try halfheartedly to lure it outside. I’ll wave a hand about the air, but the damn thing just hides deep behind some yogurt and an old turkey. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I ask the pest, “Want me to lock you in here with all that turkey?” I say. It’s a rhetorical question; I know that’s exactly what he or she wants.

I’ll play God in my head—an omnipotent and vengeful God. The fly, or maybe it’s a mosquito eater, thinks it’s found safe haven, and there’s turkey and Jell-O and old stew to be had. Ignorant is the poor creature to the oncoming darkness, and the cold, and then death; a slow death. 

I imagine the bug will simply eat, until it’s jaw tenses up, and it’s insect thoughts, whatever they may be, lose pace, and then it’s juices inside of it’s tiny exoskeleton will freeze and it'll curl up to die. The bug will have died happy, and I will return the next morning to find it… Only I probably won't find it, but I'll try, and then a couple of weeks later my mom will wipe it out with a sponge along with a bunch of other crap.

Sometimes, every once in a long while, I’m the fly, and I realize that I’ve been short sighted, but it’s usually long after I’ve lost myself inside of a dark refrigerator or a long tour of the Midwest.