Fly Swatter

Gripped tightly in fist, the lines from the plastic handle like rail road tracks on my palm. I swing hard enough to almost lose my balance. The air is separated like spaghetti, noodles caress my other hand as I bring the swatter down. The rough plastic holes are like a cheese grater on my palm. The colours are all cheap like the plastic, pale pastel yellows and blues, oranges and greens, worn and shabby from rubbing the other utensils in the drawer. Flashes of frustration as the fly escapes each time, maybe the only use for a swatter is to scare the damned things away. But this time the swatter hits, knocking the fly to the kitchen floor, struggling on the 70s linoleum, finding a crack to roll around in. I crouch and bring the swatter down to end the insect's misery. Tiny traces of blood and guts spread out on the tile, blending in to its nondescript pattern of browns and darker browns. Squeeze the trigger of cleaning spray, its environmentally approved chemicals shoved into my nose. Pad the wad of paper towel across, wiping away the evidence.