Invasion of the Black Bugs

Gill is walking down the street of a neighbouring coastal town. It is her day off and she feels free and easy, plans to have a picnic in some idyllic spot when, in an instant, she is swarmed, covered in black bugs. They're in her hair, on her face, down her arms and legs. I imagine her screaming. She escapes into a small cafe, sits flicking them off while she telephones me. She asks if I have ever seen or heard of such bugs. No... but then I remember a summer or two ago, when Marlene is in bed on the second floor, and met with a similar invasion in the middle of the night. By morning, they were gone.

Gill groans and tells me thousands of these bugs are now crawling on the cafe window. A mother at the next table is pickiing them off her baby. Nobody else seems concerned.

"Gross," Gill declares. "I am going to sit in this cafe until they all go. Do you think the owners will mind me eating my hard-boiled egg with the perrier ordered?"

"Go for it," I tell her. "They'll let you know if they don't like it." [In many cafes and bars in France, you can bring in a croissant or some Patisserie item, and eat it with your drink.]

I have yet to hear how long Gill sat at the table.