The fly had been living in my keyhole for a long, long time. So long that I had gone through annoyance, despair and finally settled on ignorance. The first time I heard it was on the day she left. I couldn’t place it at first. I walked in and out of rooms, as if the sound was one second in and one second out. Then it was in the door, jammed, right in the fibres of wood, growing, feeding on itself. Puzzled, I leaned into the keyhole and I stared right at it. The fly looked back through thousands of glass beads, stopping for just a second, before resuming its chant. The buzzing was maddening. Like it was never going to end. At times, it sounded desperate. One would think it was trying to stop and it couldn’t. As if buzzing was the only way in which it could go on,…