by Geoff Gouveia

The monarch rests atop the windowsill. Through my glass window, the great wings folded together. Ochre yellow with muddled red, the wings form an abstract shape fit for a Picasso painting. The delicate organic colors contrast against the white fabricated wooden perch. When it beats the wings down, a gentle propelled wind raises it heavenward. These wings slice the air off the windowsill and into the day.

The kitchen door slams when I walk outside to catch a glimpse of the flight. The butterfly knew its course. It floated on gusts around the yard, stopping at branches and on pieces of furniture. It never rested for too long, touch and go throughout the backyard. When the wings neared a landing, the soft flutter slid them across the surface.

This is the butterfly kiss.

A nearby cushion sank as I collapsed into it. My outstretched arm willed the wings to kiss me. The butterfly landed near, but never graced my skin. Dangling its delicate body near my fingertip transported me back to a warm evening in July seven years prior.

A girl is sitting close to me on the cement and her legs draped over mine. I want her; I want to be in love with her. I lean in close to her soft skin, the subtle perfume heaven's own fragrance. She’s perfect and I wish she’d tell me her secret. I lean in to be near beauty. My eyelashes scrape against her cheek, the wings on the end of my eyelids flapping soft and she smiles. 

The backyard sun singes the seat I’m sitting on. I wish for the shade but am desperate for the touch of the butterfly. It eludes me; the delicate touch never gifted. The warm seat carries me to my grandmother's house.

She remarks “hace calor” and I turn on the fan to relieve her. Her voice is frail and her ancient eyes release mojado, enojada tears. She’s upset and I wish I knew how to console her. I kiss her forehead with my lips. She reaches out to hold my hand: I grasp it and release. I tell her I love her. The screen door flutters for a moment as the wind blows hard against the mesh. 

Against the green ivy the flickering contrast of red bounces around the yard. The sun blinds my vision. My interior eyelids burn deep clay red. The ivy returns to pure green when they open. A gate blows rhythmic taps against its starting position, an elemental ticking clock.

 

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Thank you for reading this story 🙂 Short and sweet, eh? How about a story longer and bitter?