Sleep. Food. Fly home.
He fell asleep with those words on repeat in his thoughts.
The next morning, waking proved difficult. After the rain showers of the previous day, the park warmed slowly, having dipped to about 10 degrees Celsius overnight.
His wings shivered, but he didn't fly. Wire-thin limbs felt stiff and unresponsive. The air beneath the park bench had stayed slightly warmer than the surrounding air. Otherwise, Brad simply might not have waken up.
His new insect form needed warmth. Depended on it, in fact. Temperatures falling as low as 10 Celsius for a couple of hours, let alone a dark, cool night, could put him into dormancy. Eventually, cold could kill him. It wouldn't be anything dramatic. He'd simply shut down like a toy bereft of batteries.
He had fasted, not by choice, which had sent his energy reserves into dangerous territory. The memory of the lapped-up residue from a spilled disposable cup of coffee became little more than a hazy dream.
Light filtered through the massive wooden slats that formed the seat of the park bench. He crawled upward, pulling with tiny hooked feet, toward the light.
Exhaustion. He simply could do no more.
He stayed motionless, pale morning sun shining on the bench, imparting gradual warmth.
Sleep. Food. Fly home...
He felt so tired, but something warned him if he fell asleep again the consequences might be dire.
Food. Fly home...
Hunger felt like it was sucking him into a black void from the inside out.
A morning runner slowly entered the housefly's attention. The enormous shirtless man moved so slowly...
The man had been running for 20 minutes on the park's paths, long enough to work up a sweat. A soft breeze carried the taste of the sweat to receptors in Brad's wiry insect legs. The taste/scent of the sweat caused Brad's proboscis to pump eagerly.
Fly home...
The reminder was useless without food to fuel his flight.
He gazed up at the young man's body, a gleaming testament to good health, genetics and an active lifestyle. The sight triggered lustful thoughts... if he hadn't been in such desperate straits, he would have enjoyed buzzing closer for a slow survey of the runner's masculine form.
Food! Fly home! He tried to stay focused.
The man mopped at his forehead with a swipe of a hand and turned in preparation for a rest on the park bench.
A shadow overtook the tiny bug.
No! Fly... food... No! Home! Please! No!
Wings buzzed as the man's mesh shorts, a wide split in the sides, prepared to touch down on the bench.
After taking a seat on the bench, the man leaned forward, reaching down to tie loose laces in one of his running shoes, the problem that has caused him to seek out the bench in the first place.