‘Mayflies’: New Fiction by Liza Potvin

Sarah and I met at an Indonesian vegetarian restaurant in Ubud, where our tables were so close together that getting up required begging one another’s pardon. Needing to use the washroom, we did this twice, as if to certify our civility. I’m rather introverted, but I felt obliged to acknowledge her. Proximity breeds familiarity, and it seemed natural to begin a conversation about what we had ordered, especially as her dish was nearly under my nose. Like me, she was eating alone, so we smiled a couple of times before I asked her if she wanted to join me over dessert. We’d both recently arrived in Ubud. By the time our coffees arrived, I told Sarah that she was welcome to join me afterwards for a traditional Wayan shadow puppet show at the centre of town, a half-hour walk away.

Leaving the restaurant near dark didn’t mean that it was any cooler outdoors than it had been throughout the day. The air was still humid and hot after the sun disappeared. Walking that evening felt like wading through treacle. On our way to the show, we turned a corner and headed toward the Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary. Momentarily blinded by the headlights from oncoming cars illuminating a shower of whirling particles, we stopped in our tracks at the same time. 

“How can it be snowing here? We’re in the tropics!” I shouted.

Blinking hard, we noticed other people shrieking loudly and backing away from the sidewalks. Long-tailed macaques careened towards us from all directions, teeth bared aggressively. To get to the papery flakes as they fell from the sky, they crawled over pedestrians, some of whom beat them back with umbrellas while others tried vainly to kick them away. A burly man said to me, “It’s the mayflies they’re after!” as he fled to the far side of the street.