The first fly that fell from the hole in the bathroom ceiling had six legs – but with one wing shorter than the other, it was grounded, buzzing in an angry circle until it wore itself out, collapsing underneath the shade of a purple washcloth.
The second fly to fall through the hole had five legs. It toppled over to one side, and stayed there – until a gust of wind blew it across the tiles and into the next room.
The third fly to fall through the gap, the width of a child’s fingernail – had only four legs. It got up, walking in a straight line, before disappearing from view behind a row of cleaning products.
The fourth fly to drop down onto the glistening tiles had a complete wing span, and a full set of legs – but alas, half his head was missing, voiding any further developments.
The fifth and final fly to drop from the ceiling was complete: It strutted towards the threshold of the bathroom door, a beacon of instinct, launching up into the roasting summer air.