Fly-By

For Christmas, Tiffany's dad gave us an electric fly swatter shaped like a tennis racket. All through the winter and spring, it sat in the corner of our apartment, untouched. But Tiffany finally unsheathed it one night when the summer flies came around to spoil our deck time.

"Is it dangerous?" I asked her.

"Hold out your finger," she suggested.

"No way! Test it on yourself!"

There were lots of flies circling our dinner that evening. But Tiffany, whose hand-eye coordination leaves something to be desired (she once got a horseshoe caught in a tree), couldn't hit a single one. And, I, unwilling to swat anything to its death, wouldn't take the racket from her hand.

I guess the flies told all their friends what a great hangout they'd found because, later that night, just as we lay down, an enormous fly rose above the foot of our lofted bed. It looked--and sounded--like an Apache helicopter. 

"Disgusting!" I yelled.

"Get me the zapper!"

I scrambled down our ladder and came back up with the Racket of Death. It turns out it is dangerous. Before I had time to take cover, Tiffany wound up and swung, narrowly missing my head. 

"Watch it!" I cried, diving across her body to get out of the arc of her swing.

She swung again and again, letting out little screams each time. 

"Is it possible you are missing it every time?" I asked, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Maybe it doesn't work."

ZAP!

The fly suddenly dropped, lifeless. Onto my pillow.

"Disgusting!" I yelled again.

"Ha!" Tiffany laughed. "I knew I could get it!"