The Butterfly

Marcus isn’t listening as Lilla speaks.  The conversation is drowned out by his own inner dialogue.  He hears her voice, her tones rising and modulating in familiar conversational rhythms until that particular one that demands his input.  Usually that is a cue for him to nod in agreement or utter some form of acknowledgement to what she had said.

Marcus is driving, and though he is distracted, traffic is light affording him some leeway in terms of staying in the lanes.  Not too much, as he is still feeling the effects of the few drinks he had at the party.  He tells himself he is fine to drive, even under the best of conditions and mental clarity, reaction time bears heavily on luck and impulse.  Automatic actions requiring no thought, like catching a set of keys flung from across the room.  Thinking too much about something can easily result in disaster.  Then again, in Lillas case, this was exceptionally true. His mind’s eye keeps seeing the way her hand looked, resting on the forearm of a guy at the party.

Her skin so pale contrasted with his deep tan.  The way her eyes lit up with laughter  at something the guy said.  Marcus’ hands grip the wheel a bit tighter as he wonders why she no longer does that for him, laugh that is.  These days conversation was more of a routine exchange of words, without energy, just a dull weary act. Perhaps it’s all the things they actively avoid discussing so as not to degenerate into an all out argument.  Such veritable landmines include her alcoholism, or her habit of staying out late with her friends, coming home smelling of cigarettes, alcohol sweat and something else.

This isn’t how things should be, he thinks.  

He hated waiting for her, hated the absence of her light that she seemed to shine on everyone else except for him.  Yet, they were still intimate, sometimes,  and perhaps in those moments his frustrations with her were exorcized like howling demons.  In those moments they were connected, which was one of the few things they had left in common. 

He wanted to be the one coming home drunk, with her, laughing as she did, tossing her shoes on the floor making him have to lean down to kiss her open mouth.

But he would have to suffer the experience of seeing her flutter about like a butterfly, exuding affection and basking in its reciprocal waves of adoration. 

Tonight had been one such experience, another truth he was finding hard to accept.  He wanted something that she was never going to give him, assurance, a promise of tomorrow.  

She has stopped talking, and is immersed in the glow of her phone. Probably posting photos of the party on some social network.  Her dose of adoration and attention has worn off so she seeks it in the form of likes and reaction emojis.  

This is Marcus’ only weapon against her. To withhold from her.  To deprive her of that essence she seems to feed on, like a vampire, or parasite. 

He wants to punish her.

He wants to throw her phone out the window.

He wants to crash this car into a concrete pylon.  

Shes giggling and trying to show him something on her phone, he glances at it for a second. Its a group of smiling faces over an array of empty bottles.  He notices how one face in particular is turned profile towards hers, perhaps leaning to whisper something in her ear.  Marcus would like to see the other photos on her phone.  He also dreads what he might discover.  

Lilla lights a cigarette despite his admonishments about smoking in his car.  

She’s pushing it, inviting a fight, he decides.  He doesn’t bite, and watches the yellow lines serpentine ahead of him in the headlights. He does glance over to give her the look and sees for a second on her phone a short crop of pubic hair and something beneath that familiar shape of turf an unfamiliar object.  He knows its not him in that picture, and it is almost definitely her.  

Lilla is quite the exhibitionist, as he knows perfectly well.  Could be an old picture from a past fling, or it could just be his imagination.

He would ask her if she was cheating on him, but those boundaries were never really set down.  Just a whole lot of assumptions.  The kind that he might have formed at a very young age thinking that is how it’s supposed to be, conditioned by television shows and of course his family.  Instead he asks who that was.

She doesn’t reply,  and just pulls a stalling drag on her cigarette.  He can hear it sizzle, as it gives her time to answer.  Something evasive he guesses.  It’s someone he wouldn’t know, a long time ago. She says this offhandedly, like a long time ago wasn’t last week. She’s being way too cool about it but asks why he’s suddenly so concerned.

In response to this he accelerates the car. 

She laughs, it’s not the light sound of amusement or delight, more of a startled reaction to the unexpected.   

He’s taking curves a bit too fast and is drifting into other lanes, she’s asking him to slow down, but this only compels more speed.

An oncoming set of headlights fast approaches and has to swerve to avoid being clipped by Marcus’ wild driving.  The blare of their horn dopplers away angrily. 

She’s screaming at him now, her voice rising higher in panic like an impending climax.

He’s getting what he wants, her undivided attention, though this might be the last time, ever.

Of course he would prefer her affection, and to see desire in her eyes again, he doesn’t know when he lost her to other men, other interests. 

He had missed a turn some time ago with no way to turn around, no direction to go except forward, both literally and figuratively.  She’s calling him an asshole, spewing a tirade of obscenities at him.  She’s telling him the truth now, she’s showing him who she really is.

He turns to look at her again, and she’s not there.  Just the memory of her, and the cigarette burn left above the window.  He wonders how she’s doing these days, and if she even thinks about him.  Maybe her jumping out of the car when he was stopped at a red light saved both of their lives that night.  What died though, left ghosts behind. And they dont rest easy.