Beads of sweat rolled down the smooth plane of Narciss’s domed head and flew off his chin with each swing of his rolled newspaper. The high pitched whine in the air maneuvered around each ferocious sweep of drum-tight white knuckles and zipped past his glistening forehead. Tiny wings buzzed and taunted him with each dive by his clenched brows. His mad swiping gradually slowed down and hot palms pressed against his bent knees as he coiled himself close to the ground and panted.
The nuisance circled above the reader’s head, rousing his temper again before it drifted toward the beat up pool table and landed on the corner. It rubbed its front legs together and slicked them over its brilliant carmine eyes and jet black body with precision. Narciss wiped salty sweat off his brow with the dull sleeve of his sweater, letting his arm fall freely from his flushed frown.
Though the beating of the pest’s wings ceased, another droning in the distance caught his attention. He could make out the voices of three younger members of the group moving through the mineshafts and into the living room turned theater of war.
First to speak radiated deep violet and royal blue, their waves reading in Narciss’s periphery low and even like the settling wax of a lava lamp. “Woah, you look like hell.”
The middle aged man groaned and straightened his back. “Gee, thanks Amata.”
A quieter kinder voice made itself known, emanating from a soft powder blue presence. The energy of the young man towered high, but curled downward the way a wilting stalk would. “Are you alright?”
“I will be after I kill this damn fly once and for all,” Narciss grumbled. “Step aside, Pidge.”
“What fly?” spoke the third voice. It erupted from a rich burst of amber leading into punchy copper and iron reds. A stunning and brilliant soul if it weren’t for its stupid questions.
“Seriously, Hansa? You don’t see it right there taunting me?” The reader gestured with his newspaper to the edge of the pool table. It fluttered its wings in place, itching his periphery.
Narciss wound up like a baseball pitcher with a trusty bat. Before he could thrust the weight of the weapon down, a blur of soft blue stepped between him and the fly. “Woah, easy, easy,” Pigeon said. “That’s not how you catch flies.”
Narciss scoffed and crossed his arms. “Lead the way since you’re the expert.”
Pigeon kneeled at the corner of the pool table so gingerly, one would have thought he was nursing an injured knee. “The trick is to move slow,” he lectured as he carefully set his elbow on the edge of the table. His cupped hand began to descend at an imperceptible speed.
The fly turned to the left and right, but remained in place, sensing no danger.
“Doesn’t it see you coming?” Hansa asked, puzzled by his friend’s actions.
Pigeon’s blue lips curled up into a soft smile. “It’s the same way you and I see the setting sun. It moves too slowly for us to know it’s coming. If you move too fast, it can see you move too.”
Amata awed as Pigeon’s large gaunt hand closed around the fly and he closed his fist over it, successfully capturing it.
“What, you’re not gonna kill it?” Narciss griped.
“No,” answered the gentle giant. “I’m taking it outside where it belongs.”