Fruit Flies

Last night at a party off the Church stop on the G train, I wore red lipstick a shade or two too bright and a dress with a gold pineapple on it. I met a tall-tall man with a beard who had a hand that felt like a paw when I shook it. We stood and talked in a group on the roof of an old Brooklyn apartment building, discussing the stars, animals in captivity, and looking in at neighbors with open windows. I made some jokes and he laughed at some of them. BYOT. Bring your own telescope.

A girl I deemed my only competition for the tall-tall man's attention started talking about her job as a neuroscientist, about how she does experiments on fruit flies--stimulates them and studies their reactions. "You basically just fuck with fruit flies all day," someone in the group said. We all laughed. She did not laugh. She talked science and neurons and carbon reactors, but I couldn't stop thinking about those poor fucked with fruit flies and how much luckier the ones that live in my kitchen are. I've been meaning to kill them, actually. "Research how to kill fruit flies" is on my to do list at home, but now I want to buy them some bananas and just let them be. Life is hard enough without being fucked with.

Eventually, we all got kicked off the roof by the building's super, so we went down to the apartment which was stuffy and had terrible lighting. A little bit after that the tall-tall man left the party with someone else. I felt disappointed but facebook stalked him later and think that he might actually be gay(?!) Ugh. I bet that never happens to fruit flies.