You first spot it near the window, tapping its head against the glass like it’s trying to message you via Morse code. “Let me out,” it seems to signal. “Or at least turn off the TV so I can land in peace.”
I call it the “crane fly,” but my neighbor calls it a “mosquito hawk” and swears it eats mosquitoes. I’m pretty sure that’s a myth, but hey, it makes me feel better about its gangly, chaotic presence. It’s like the insect version of a noodle that somehow learned to fly.
You try to ignore it, telling yourself, “It’s just a fly. It’s harmless.” But then it does a loop-de-loop over your coffee mug, and you flinch so hard you almost spill your drink. That’s the real danger. Not bites, but pure, unadulterated distraction.
The Dance of the Fly Swatter
Now comes the part where you become an unlikely hunter. You grab the fly swatter—or, if you’re like me, a rolled-up magazine that makes you feel like a samurai. You approach slowly, like a panther stalking its prey in the Serengeti of your dining room.
But this bug has radar. The moment you raise your weapon, it does a graceful barrel roll and floats three feet to the left. It’s like trying to swat a wisp of smoke that’s taunting you. I swear it’s laughing in that high-pitched buzz.
Maryetta Sampson
You miss. You miss again. Your cat is watching from the sofa, judging your technique with the cold eyes of a natural predator who doesn’t need thumbs. It’s humiliating. You’re now sweating, and the bug is calmly perched on the curtain rod, looking down at you like, “Rough day at the office, partner?”
