Fly got home late, as was typical during the holiday season. He poured himself a stiff bourbon and relaxed back into his favorite armchair, rubbing his feet together to chase the stiffness and plaster scraps away. The walls were particularly dirty today. They got all speckled with grease and cranberries during Thanksgiving and then no one really bothered to clean them up. Fly sighed, scraping a piece of lurid orange paint off of his foot. The owners of the paint were having an equally lurid conversation – someone’s mother had stolen someone’s sister’s boyfriend, or was it someone’s sister’s friend had pretended to be someone’s boyfriend? Fly sighed. He hated people. He hated walls. He hated being on walls, evading flyswatters like he was the one throwing food all over his house and talking about disgusting things. He hated his grandfather, Fly Sr., for leaving him with this abominable task. The piece of paint finally peeled off of Fly’s foot. Fuck this, Fly thought. He unplugged his phone. He threw his notebooks in the fire, one by one. He watched them sizzle as he read the paper. Dog leaves goldmine; owners neglect to pick up! Fly grinned. Tomorrow he was taking the day off.
Naomi Krupitsky Wernham
Naomi Krupitsky Wernham holds a B.A. in creative writing, aesthetics, and sensory experience from NYU’s Gallatin School. Her fiction, poetry, and academic writing have been published in various literary journals, in print and online. She lives in New York. For more, please see www.nhkw.net.
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