PicturePaparazzi, Esda Shangri-La
The eternal battle between a pregnant woman's emotions and reality reared it's cryptic and perplexing head just the other night.  With the pregnancy I expected some emotional flares, and there has been.  This time though, it seemed a little different.  
We were at a restaurant with my parents, they were due to leave the following day so we took them to a favourite place of ours, where the staff know our name and the Italian chef comes out to our table, preparing bespoke meals for us in his modern yet charmingly traditional way.  
In the light fitting above our table we noticed the bodies of two dead flies, laying side by side.  To me, the sight of two dead flies was inconsequential: they were flies, and they were dead.  To Megan, however, the sight of these two represented a tragic narrative of young love, two promising lives taken all too early.  Somewhere, there were two little fly families in mourning, torn apart by the senseless loss of their children.  These flies had lives, they had personalities and dreams...  They were Romeo and Juliet.  Cleopatra and Mark Antony.  Pyramus and Thisbe.  
Meg was just short of bursting into tears as we waited for our entrees.  My attempts to provide solace were, and still are, useless.  I tried to reason that back home there are countless fly bodies littering the bottoms of light fittings everywhere - I even tried to lighten the mood by saying that these were part of some strange fly suicide cult.  It didn't work.  Mass fly graves were commonplace and didn't warrant emotion (even though they could've been attempts at fly genocide by fly dictators or fly warlords), but just two little fly bodies - that created a bleak, despondent picture of heartbreak & mourning... 
The woeful tale of the two flies still brings grief.  One day we'll look back and laugh, but not soon - and probably not for at least three more months...


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