The Dance

If a fly were to, and I am aware of the absurdity of this statement in mid-April in Brussels, especially in an apartment so freshly painted my nostrils tremble. If a fly were to dangle on the wall in my office, he or she or it would be dancing. Mesmerized by the rhythmic rolling of my head on my neck and the heavy coffee odors that cling to the air. I can’t keep still and a fly’s body is smaller than my fingernail! All six legs wiggling like there’s no tomorrow, which of course is the case. For that is the tragic life of the fly. And I imagine the dancing is all the better for it.