Sutton Revell

fruit fly, corn syrup

by: Sutton Revell

CW: Gun violence (non-graphic).

The gravel made indents in my palms and I was thinking about flies. The dumpster was surrounded with them, and I could hear the buzzing from where I was sitting in front of the convenience store. It was November, and I thought all of the bugs would have died by then, or at least found something better to do. I had the urge to find a large swatter and kill them all in one loud SPLAT, to conveniently drop their remains in the dumpster where they so loudly convened. But no such swatter was available, and I was comfortable where I was sitting, the pressure from the gravel biting at my skin in a way that was more calming than cumbersome, akin to a small animal teething on a pinky finger. Something brings me inside the store. I really can’t remember what. Probably the never distant memory of high-fructose corn syrup, something sweet and colorful calling to me like a sailor to a siren, a siren to a shipwreck. The store is quiet, save for the small hum of energy, of lights and freezers, like a heartbeat in a deep sleep. I grab a grape soda and immediately regret it, wanting anything else in the world, but a grand stubbornness inside me forces me to stick with my decision as the door slams shut. Or maybe less stubbornness than it is a small social anxiety passed down generation after generation, one that natural selection learned to love and couldn’t bear to part with, much to the dismay of my racing heart and sweaty palms.

I walk up to the cashier and I don’t think he said a word, his mind somewhere else. And I was somewhere else. And we passed by each other like two trains on opposite tracks, and I knew he was there but I had no interest in where he was going, and he felt the same about me. He must have. I paid in cash, and I don’t think I gave him the change, because I kind of like the way loose coins can feel in a pants pocket, the way they make themselves known and the smell of copper they leave on your fingers. And I left. And I watched a car pull in and didn’t think much about it at the time, but I keep going back and back and back because I missed my chance. I missed my chance to see him. To look and to connect and to feel and all that dumb, sappy stuff. Kinder, littler things. Instead, his last memories were waiting for a shift to end, a bright fluorescent becoming, a man with a gun and desperation. Something loud and violent, with the aggression only multicolored candies could bear to see. Because they are fake and nothing real could possibly phase them. And I am real and nothing fake could possibly phase me. But now I wake up with a fly buzzing in my ear and I can’t bring myself to harm it.