It is late, the dark has started weaving nests into crannies. I’m drunk. We’ve only known each other a few weeks.
“I don’t want this,” I told her, a few minutes ago.
And so, she paces.
“What are you?” she asks, her arms limp from nail biting.
I frown at her, drinking something–a beer, probably. “I’m a man?”
She frowns, “No–no! You are arms–yes, legs, eyes–yes, three hundred pages of verse, maybe–but you are not a man.”
She goes back to pacing.
I roll my eyes. “Why are you being so dramatic?”
“I’m not being dramatic,” she tells the other side of the balcony, “I’m being poetic.”
She walks back and stands over me.
She looks down, into me–about to cry or kill me, I don’t know.
“Some butterflies are beautiful for only a day and then they die,” she whispers. She kneels down, places her face on my leg. I put my fingers in her hair.
“Am I supposed to be a butterfly?” I ask, finishing what certainly seems to be a beer.
She shakes her head. “No–you are not so lovely a thing. You are a stomach ache, you linger–you do not die, not beautiful enough to die.”
She sits back on her haunches, she laughs. I laugh too, not understanding.
Like a blind man clapping at a magic show.
My laugh goes on much longer than hers. She kisses my hand.
“You poor boy,” she tells me.
She stands up and goes inside.