“How long does it take for a fly to die?” asked the frustrated housewife. She was standing by the kitchen sink, brushing her face with her hand. “Disgusting.”
“A few days,” her husband answered from the kitchen table. He turned to look at her. “Unless of course you smash it. Then the disassociated parts won’t bother you. Whether or not they are alive is another matter.”
“Don’t be gross! Why do you always have to find the worst possible way to look at things?”
“It’s a family trait. We’re dying off one by one, and I’m wondering what that means.”
“People aren’t flies.”
“Piranha do the same kind of work as flyswatters.”
The wife left the room.
Death had always been an interesting proposition to the husband. It was as mysterious as life. Which was which, and what did it mean? He sighed. It was all a question of being.
Copyright 2014 George Lowell Tollefson