The monarch butterfly is crumpled under her foot when she lifts it gingerly.
The first thing she does is rub the sole of the soiled foot against the floorboards, in mild disgust. A wing detaches from the edge of her toe and she shudders. Outside, the rain keeps coming down in ferocious sheets, like the skies are crying for the tiny butterfly's death.
The butterfly is orange. The colour she loves.
Her boyfriend yells pieces of inaudible conversation from the kitchen and she cups her hands around her lips, swollen from kisses and the winter. Can't hear you, she returns, and scuffs her foot free of the last scraps of butterfly antennae. What did you just say?
She pads into the kitchen, giving up on her hearing. Wraps her arms around the small of his waist.
Portobello mushrooms, he murmurs and she feels the vibrations of his voice tremble through the tips of her fingers. Dinner tonight. Apart from you, of course. He's stealing a peck from her now, which turns into intense sighing and the taste of herbs on his tongue. You're cute. As always.
Outside, the rain ceases for a moment as a piercing siren wails through the night. She instinctively covers her ears, and shrinks back into his embrace as he takes her into his arms. Shh, it's just the show I chose on Netflix, babe. Not a real police siren. You fragile little thing. He spins her around, lets her drown a little in the reflection of his eyes, the kitchen lights swaying with the wind. See? That's the start of the Handmaid's Tale, those sirens in the background. Don't be afraid. I'm here.
She's afraid because he's here, she wants to say, but the words lodge painfully in her throat. She opts for silence instead, watches the portobello mushrooms lie flat, open, ready to be sliced into pieces. The citrus candle her boyfriend has lighted and placed tenderly on the glass tabletop flickers with easy grace. It is so enticing, the way it moves in the night.
Like the wings of a broken monarch butterfly.
