The Fly

As soon as his mashed potatoes had cooled, the fly arrived. It perched on the white mound, washing its face in preparation for the meal.

He looked down at it from a great height. There was a frown on his face, his eyebrows knitted in rising anger. “Damned fly!” He slammed his fist onto the plate.

“Jeff!” his wife screamed in dismay. “Whatever are you doing?” She sent the children away from the table.

Miraculously, the fly had escaped. It was buzzing back and forth across the kitchen, wondering what calamity had beset it.

Jeff was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He wondered what had gotten into him. Sheepishly, he began wiping the mashed potatoes off his shirt cuff with his napkin. The fly continued buzzing back and forth across the room, making dive bombing runs at Jeff’s head. It landed on his forehead.

 Copyright 2013 George Lowell Tollefson

 

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