summer in slow motion

When he says I’m pretty in ways that sometimes don’t involve words, all I see are butterflies. Thousands of them. Clouding my vision. Making it so I can’t see him anymore. His words hit me like make-believe. The compliments sink in only so far and are chased out with casual comments about his being sweet or too kind. Too kind. It’s too kind to think of me as lovely. Smart? Yes. Funny? Yes. Resilient? Sure. But Butterflies land on my shoulders. They fan their wings in the spring air.

I have this mistrust of him. It’s completely unfounded but it’s there. Under the surface. Lurking. It shoots up questions and misgivings and paranoia and wonder. Why is he here? Why is he standing here? Right in front of me. His lips are moving and butterflies are pouring out. His perfect lips. Pouty. Full. His heavily lashed eyes blink in slow motion behind his glasses. He is unaware of them. They land on his nose and ears and pause there. Listening. How doesn’t he see? There is a pale yellow one walking carefully on a strand of hair. Why can’t I hear what he’s saying anymore? His lips just move. He is smiling as he talks.

Sometimes he’ll walk through them and be waiting with a bag of unassembled dinner and want to get wine up the street. He’ll have gotten things I can’t pronounce. He’ll add walnuts. Or thyme. He’ll make dinner and think he is somehow getting the better end of the deal. But I am. I know it’s me who is the lucky one. It’s me with the butterflies circling around. Talking myself into letting down my guard. Testing the waters. I want so badly to give him my little knight in shining armor. But I keep it in a drawer. I have never given it to anyone like I would place it in his hand. The butterflies aren’t detoured by the steam rising from the pasta. They fly through like it’s not even there.

We’ll sit on the floor and eat dinner like we’re in a park. The wine will make my cheeks pink. And I’ll look at him all dreamy eyed and hopeful. It will smell like herbs and garlic and salty ocean breezes in the apartment. He will tell me about the book he is reading as though the characters were his best friends. We’ll wonder about how cities are on other planets. If aliens are green. We’ll play Chinese Checkers. Just a quick game. And then one more. The butterflies will be slow from the wine, like me. They’ll settle on the floor and linger there while I lay my head against the cushions and notice how perfect his skin is.

He will have band practice. Or homework. I’ll have glitter painting. Or writing. I’ll take my laptop to Zeitgeist and try to unravel this mystery. Try to undo the things that were done. Force open some doors so he can squeeze in another inch. Hoping that what he finds once there is at least what he expected. Perfect world, more than he could have hoped for. Later he’ll let me play with his hair. He’ll lay his head in my lap and close his eyes. He will hold my hand. Kiss my fingers. Bite my lip. All the while, being buried and then revealed by the swarm. A flutter of pastels and thin delicate black legs. Unbelievable pretty.