Iím just a fly, you see. Up high on the wall. Everyone hates me, green, annoying and all. I see everything. My eyes are so complex. Today, a day in the early 1920's, before I was mostly shut out by air conditioning, I could sneak in out of sultry heat in a pearl of sweat on a cheek. I got in this office through the transom above a frosted glass door, flew an obstacle course around an old wood ceiling fan and whew! Iím clinging to this wall. I see down there a pretty young thing typing on an old Underwood. I see her, too, bending a key just so she can call that cute repairman I saw across the street when I was perched on the back of a horse yesterday. (I am being very still, for I do not want to get swatted.) She has on a sweet navy dress, really too warm for today. And as a fly, I know legs! Hers are lovely crossed in that setting of high heel whites and a tiny bow on the side. Look, she is picking up the telephone.

"Central," she sweetly says, "Please give me 336."

"Underwood? My typewriter is broken, and I have to do these letters in a hurry - can you send me your guy?"

I believe he must be saying "Right away, Iíll even come myself, Mrs. Jones."

Little pretty corrects him, "It is ĎMissí." Sheís blushing.

Ho, hum, Iím getting a little sleepy now, but I darenít flutter. Sheíll see me for sure, and Iíll be one dead fly. Oh, thereís the door! Mr. Underwood Guy is peeking around the walnut door frame. "Come over here, Mr. Guy," Miss Jones is saying musically.

Now, just look at him. Isnít he a fine looking young man? So professional in his white and blue striped shirt, pleated pants and dark red tie. Oh, yes, even a straw hat and a fancy band on each arm to hold up his sleeves. Maybe some day in the future repairmen will dress more comfortably, but not in these 1920's. He carries only one credential, a heavy tin wood-handled tool box, and Miss Jones is trusting him to stand at her back.

Mr. Guy says, "Well, hereís your problem! A bent ĎBí key!"

"Now how in the world could something like that happen? Has someone else been using my typewriter?" Miss Jones is coyly feigning innocence.

The Underwood man has to get very close to Miss Jonesí face to reach her typewriter, and even from here, I can smell his fresh shaving soap. I can tell Miss Jones can, too, for she has a limped expression on her comely countenance. I hear her say "Oh, no! But thank you, thank you, Sir, for having an extra ĎBí key in your tool box!"

Mr. Guy is finally catching on. He, too, is looking a little insipid, and is saying shyly, (his blue eyes unable to hide their twinkle from me), "May I know your first name, Mam? I would greatly appreciate the opportunity to take you to hear the oompah band in the park gazebo this Saturday."

Another blush, "Of course, Mr. Guy, itís ĎLucy.í And I would be very pleased to accompany you."

Oh, no, itís getting dark! Iíll risk one buzz to fly into that light bowl for the night, and maybe I can catch a ride out on a shoulder in the morning.

Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)



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