Fruit Flies

Clap. clap.

His hands went clapping around, slamming one another with a loud slap every time, they would cup, and then fold open like a butterfly’s wings. He would look for the telltale black speck. Sometimes there would be one, sometimes there would be none. No matter how fast he tried to kill them, they would not die. And every week, they were growing, there were so many now. The kitchen was dim, even with the big light overhead, though it was weak. If it flickered, which sadly it did not, it would have completed a cliche, that the kitchen otherwise fit. Blackening fruits, grocery bags full to the brim with trash. It did not smell, that at least, was a relief. The countertops were glimmering as if speaking about the small layer of water on them, the humidity. That is what it was. The moistness. That is why they were breeding. The stone tiles, he was accustomed to, he did not feel how rough, and at parts, smooth they were. He could almost taste the smoothie in the fridge. He did not want to open it, lest any of the pests get inside.

Clap.

They just wouldnt die. So many would come. He would kill one, he would see three more circling around his head, drifting lazily. He would try to crush them, but they would be too fast. His clapping seemed the most effective, ineffective as that was though. Surrounding them with his palm, and turning it into a fist seemed to have no effect other than maybe make him angry.

Clap. clap. Clap.

It was here! It was here! He used his keys to tear the tape in a straight line on the cardboard box. Inside were two long bulbs. He took them out. And there it was! Wrapped in bubble packing, he opened it up. Said to no one around him in particular, but also to the fruit flies or gnats or whatever they were, “they are going to die, they are going to die.” A singsong, happy voice. He plugged it in. and waited for the first zap sound. They were nowhere to be seen. No zap could be heard.