The Fly By

“I did a fly by today,” Mary says while we’re washing dishes after dinner.

“You did a what?” I ask.

“A fly by. Is that right? Fly by?”

“Ummm, not familiar with the term. At least not outside the realm of aeronautics.”

Gesturing with her hands, she says, “You know, when you fart and then walk by someone. I did a fly by on them.”

“I think you mean you crop dusted them.”

“Crop dusted! That’s it!” she exclaims, smacking the counter with the dishtowel.

“Who did you crop dust?” I ask, laughing and scrubbing the inside of a skillet.

“A school visitor in the office. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,” she says sheepishly.

“Then it wasn’t an intentional crop dusting?” I ask.

“Well, I knew it was coming and I didn’t do anything to stop it,” she says.

“Then it was intentional.”

“Oh. I really didn’t mean for it to be.”

A moment of silence passed, and then she said, “I think she heard it.”

“What? Why? Did she look at you or say something?”

“I don’t know, I was too embarrassed to look back. But it was loud enough that I’m pretty sure she heard it. I heard it.”

“Yeah, but you knew to listen for it. You can’t assume she heard it,” I say, hanging the skillet on the rack.

“I was leaving the office when it happened. Maybe she thought it was the door opening?” she says hopefully.

“Hey, whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Another moment of silence, then: “You’re going to put this on the blog, aren’t you?”


~Alan