I take the last swallow of a glass of merlot, and notice a small maroon bump on the inside of the glass. Looks like an insect—but surely it's just a bit of cork. I look more closely, see a small, compact mass with a couple of bent legs. Ew. A dead fruit fly. Drowned in wine—perhaps not such a bad way to go.

The waiter shows up to take up payment for the meal, and I bring his attention to the fly in a friendly way. It's then I see the two tiny legs waving.

I roll up the corner of a paper napkin, and scoot him up out of the glass, for otherwise, his demise is sure to be ugly in the hot water of a dishwasher. Still, it's a delicate procedure, and it seems his wings and limbs are becoming more incapacitated by my rescue efforts.

We continue to make conversation at the table. Meanwhile, every now and again, I check on the progress of the purple fly. First sign of hope, the two hind legs rubbing together. Later, one wing coming unglued from the body—it's been crumpled but perhaps undamaged. Then the forelegs washing the face. Time passes, and now he's on the edge of the napkin, like a tiny plane on a tiny ledge, preparing for takeoff. By now, I think this guy deserves a name. I mean, soaked in merlot, all of his parts stuck together, he's pushing not just for survival, but for flight. For some reason, the name Ernie pops into my head just as, across the table, the name Lucky is proposed.

Ernest Luck.

It's time to go, and I plan to carry Ernie out with me but just as we're to rise, I look down at the napkin and, nothing but a purple stain to be found. Ernie has flown. He has other plans in mind.