A Fly-By.

It was never clear exactly how long the fly had been hiding in Jack’s moustache. 

 

It may have only be moments, perhaps an hour or two and certainly no longer than half a day, as he had showered that morning and scrubbed vigorously with both soap and hot water. He hadn’t combed it, something he started to do regularly thereafter, but he was fairly certain that his tash had brushed the surface of at least one cup of coffee on the way to the interview.

 

The two other people in the room, officials from the airline hoping to fill vacancies for the cabin crew on their trans-Atlantic service, watched in open-mouthed shock as the insect made its way across the room towards them. Their question about Jack’s suitable experience elsewhere, lay unfinished between them.

 

Jack tried his best and attempted to seize the initiative as he watched the disaster unfolding before him and settling in ruins worthy of a Luftwaffe raid during the Blitz.

 

“I want to stress my credentials as a fly-attendant.”

 

As an attempt at humour in the midst of adversity it wasn’t bad. If he had been at an audition for the local pantomime it may well have swung things in his favour and he could have rejoiced at landing the role of one of the clown parts. As it was, he wasn’t, and despite his masterful dead-pan delivery he found himself watching the door close as he stood once again in the corridor with the other hopeful candidates.

 

“How did it go?” one of them asked.

“Where’s the exit?” Jack replied shaking his head.

“It’s behind you,” another offered.

“Oh no it isn’t,” replied a third, who started laughing. 

“Sorry,” she added, “I’ve just come from an audition for Robin Hood.” 

She waved a small handout illustrated with a colourful medieval fayre as way of explanation. Or defence. Jack did not look like he wanted to laugh.

 

In fact, he wanted to cry. 

 

So he did.

 

The woman stood up and moved towards him before hesitating. A grown man crying was her soft spot and though she didn’t really like men with facial hair something about Jack made her want to wrap him in her arms. 

 

But.

 

This was probably neither the time nor the place. The society they both lived in deemed that physical contact with the opposite sex could be both equally inappropriate behaviour and physical violence.

 

“Fuck it,” she said. “This is the time.” She marched forward through the gasps of the other applicants, took Jack in her arms and pulled him close.

 

“It’ll be all right,” she whispered.

 

“Oh no it won’t,” he whimpered. 

 

Jack was proving to be excellent pantomime material. He just needed the opportunity.