I was a charmer. The twinkle in my cerise eyes, the sweet buzz of my dulcet voice, and my lithe body never failed to seduce the lassies of my community. Swarmed at all times, I took pride in being a lover who never fell in love until I met you. 

“She is not your type,” they said. But I couldn’t take my eyes off you. What caught my attention? The cerulean blue eyes, the cascading tresses, the sweet, floral body scent, or the red, luscious lips? No, not your drop-dead gorgeous looks, but your indifference to me was magnetic. The Casanova in me felt challenged.

I hovered around you, yet you remained oblivious to my presence. I buzzed a soulful melody, but you shooed me away. With every failed attempt, my resolve to woo you strengthened. Like a love-struck paramour, I stalked you day and night.

At first, I stole glances from afar. Later, I gathered the courage to peek into your house. Your disastrous housekeeping skills never bothered me. On the contrary, the ambiance was perfect; I thrived in clutter. Yet, I kept my distance, afraid to get any closer. 

What if you rejected me?

One morning, the balcony door was left ajar.

Was this an invitation?

I tip-toed into your bedroom. You looked ethereal in the lustrous yellow of the sunrise. I pecked you on your cheek, and you responded with a smile. You muttered something in your sleep.

Did you say you loved me too?

I brimmed with confidence. It was time to come clean, to bare my heart. That evening, I stood outside your door with a palpitating heart. I had rehearsed my lines for the umpteenth time and was ready to go down on my knees. Just then, a hand reached out to the doorbell. A handsome young man stood next to me.

You opened the door, visibly excited, and looked resplendent in red. Imagine my shock when you chose to hug the stranger and ignore me.

“Hey, stay away from her! Get any closer, and you will repent all your life.”

My words made no difference to either of you. You didn’t resist when that devil scooped you in his arms. I followed you into the house and watched you pour two glasses of red wine. I foresaw a disaster. I had to stop it.

Was this the end of my love story? Not if I can help it. I had a solution; I had to stay true to my disposition.

At the opportune moment, I contaminated the wine in his glass with fecal matter. The both of you were too engrossed to notice.

Thirty minutes later, your guest rushed to the restroom and retched till his stomach bled. I had successfully sabotaged the date. 

Don’t be upset, my dear. You still have me. 

I feel no remorse. Isn’t it said that everything is fair in love and war? So what if I was a housefly in love with a woman? 

 

Cover picture credit: Kostiantyn Li, Unsplash.com.

 

 

 

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