The fluorescent light above our booth flickered as if in response to the fly’s battering. There was a crackling and buzzing emanating from it in a steady, lethargic pulse. A murk of smoke, an attempted replication of
smog, hung in the air above our table. I watched as one of the flies landed in the tangle of David’s locks. He remained completely unaware of the fly’s march through the dog-trot halls of his hair. L.A.