My boss suspects there is a nest of flies hidden in the door’s closer. That’s that metal box on top that automatically closes the door.
One day, I came in through said door with suspect closer and found a swarm flying upwards and away from me, with synchronized strokes. They’re probably attracted to the dried syrup drops, my boss said when he came in, that are not wiped away by my coworkers who close at night.
I guess it really is true that you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
There is, however, a question that needs to be answered first: Why would anyone deliberately attract flies? (They are not a rarity after all: gossiping coworkers, persistent telemarketers, relatives whose judgments outweigh blood compassion, strangers who beat down my ideals.)
Or maybe the more important question is what happens as a consequence of holding out your honey for those fly-like neighbors. For when I see these flies’ love of honey — my honey — life opens up a pair of eyeglasses and points to the barest of interstices between “me” and “them.”
“Yes,” she says. “There are spaces, gaps, and differences — but they are miniscule.” After all, aren’t we all attracted to good, especially in the form of viscous sunshine? Aren’t we all gravitating towards a land flowing with milk and honey?