Insecticide

I drove home from work and lay down on the bed. Then I got up and opened a window. So humid. Thought I heard a stomp of thunder. Or maybe it was the neighbours. I set my alarm for 7:30. And put a video on. Gennady Golovkin vs Grzegorz Proksa. What a puncher Golovkin is. Like a crack of lightening, heavy as a boulder. The commentators made oohs and ahhs as the shots hit Proksa, sending him into the ropes. It was as though two men were hitting him. I realised that Golovkin was younger than me. I felt old. And I felt like a child in comparison to him. Weak. Slow. Uncoordinated. Lazy.
A fly landed on my bare leg. It shuffled about. Bzzzt. I tried to swat it with a heavy paw. It flew away effortlessly. As though it hadn’t even seen that I was trying to kill it.
I decided it was just a stupid insect. It became trapped between the venetian blinds and the window. It kept tapping against the glass, unable to fathom why this transparent area was solid. Why it couldn’t fly right through. To other legs. To more vital parts. I wondered if it carried eggs. Whether it was looking for a good nest for them.
Insecticide.
Half asleep, I crossed my fingers for rain. The air needed a good clean. And so did I.

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