Right Foot, Left Foot

Internal monologue from questioning everything that I notice.

I’m standing over the kitchen sink, sucking down the sweet juice of a donut peach. It’s succulency trickles down my forearm like ivy clinging to a tree. To my right a swath of newly crystallized air rushes in through the screen door, a late summer’s thunderstorm looms in the distance.

The buzzing is not in my head. The buzzing is not in my head. The buzzing is in fact all around. From the incessant drum of miniature wings that have evaded my fly swatter to the purr of the living room’s mounted ceiling fans; the buzzing is not only in my head. As of late, it never seems to register in the daytime, but come nightfall I know that it will rage loudly in the space between my ears as I try to sleep. Perhaps if I ate some of the decaying fruit - a lemon, three bananas and a suspicious calloused-looking avocado, the flies would all die. I wipe my mouth clean of the remnants of the peach, the one Rebecca bought for me at the market on Saturday, and toss the pit.