Breadcrumb #89

DANiel TOY

She cradles the boy in the butterfly shoppe, picking rosy glass from the seam of his scalp, lice-like. She’s careful as a surgeon, despite knowing she's already lost him. Around her, visitors continue to shriek, high-pitched and desperate, searching. They step over lifeless butterflies scattered across the floor, trapping orange wings in rubber soles. Danaus plexippus, she thinks reflexively. Milkweed reliant. Susceptible to the cold. They’d perish in a few weeks if they weren’t already gone. All parts of her usual sermon given to bored families and tourists, or anyone who happened to pass through the conservatory. Henry, her own little beauty boy, called her shoppe the Snow Globe House, referring to the 11,000 feet of reinforced glass that made up the dome of the building. Henry, he’d wonder why it was so warm inside whenever she brought him in with her.

     They can’t survive in the snow, she’d say.

     He’d ask then how can we.

     The boy in her arms now loses warmth as more air seeps in through the cracks and holes above them, around. Who did he belong to? Apple-smooth skin that makes her aware of her own rough fingers. Brown eyes, even darker than Henry’s.

     As the ground finally stops its shifting, she stands up and lays him out on a nearby bench — a single untouched thing. She motions to place a kiss on his head or to tuck hair behind his ear, but they’re not hers to give. Instead she reaches down and gathers a handful of debris: years reduced to leaf and glass in her palm. She smiles, wanting to laugh, but stops herself, acknowledging her selfish, misplaced interests.  

     When Henry was 3, she’d rest her hand on his forehead to coax him to sleep. After years of the same gesture, she became attuned to his natural temperature. It helped her to sleep too, but any fluctuation — whether too hot or too cold — would upset her. Couldn’t he just stay the same every night?

After years of the same gesture, she became attuned to his natural temperature. It helped her to sleep too, but any fluctuation — whether too hot or too cold — would upset her.

     How are you feeling? she’d ask, and he’d roll over or mumble or already be asleep. Wake up, she’d say. Henry, wake up. But children, she knew, were unconcerned with people who closed their eyes after them.

     Those earlier years, waking up was the hardest part — her first thoughts always about him, worry each time she picked him up, held him, that he’d look at her as he would a stranger. And eventually that’s what she convinced herself she was: a stranger raising a strange child. She tells herself now that the resentment later happened independently, but in her darkest moments, maybe her realest, it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy.

     The butterfly shoppe, she realizes, had always held her heart.

     She ignores her mounting pulse. The uninjured have all fled now, to safety or to somewhere else. She doesn’t know. The outside pollutants have contaminated the space around her, tainting the lemongrass dew, a scent she worries she’ll never experience in the same way again. Blood hides in places, she thinks, but less than could be expected, if you can expect something like that. She doesn’t know.

     Then the red and blue lights, they bounce around the shattered dome, scattering over the scene: the red concealing, the blue exposing. She closes her eyes, listens instead to the repetitive screeching, somehow more tolerable.

    One night when Henry’s cries woke her, she carried him into the kitchen to show him the progress of their in-house butterfly, then in a state of chrysalis in a small makeshift garden. It had started to hatch, she noticed, but became stuck within the hard shell — an unfortunate but natural part of the process if ideal conditions weren’t met. Its wings could still move in place, but that’s as far as it would get.

     Is it coming out? Henry said. He touch-tapped his finger to the hard plastic as if to wake it.

     She could have explained why it wasn’t using the jargon she reserved for visitors to the shoppe — its possible parasitization by the OE spore or the up-and-down temperature of the house — but instead: It will, she said. Eventually.

     After putting Henry back down, she carefully removed the shell from the container and worked at it with a pair of tweezers, understanding that trying to aid it at this point could only do more harm — illogical actions just to show her son something nice in the morning. Maybe if she could do this, she thought, she wouldn’t wake up with flightless thoughts.

     When the wings fell apart in her hands that night, she threw it all in the garbage, and Henry, he didn’t ask any questions the next day.

     She opens her eyes now to a man in a white disposable suit. He stands across the room from her, calmly waving a gloved hand toward the exit. Someone pushes her, she thinks, or guides her, or else her body naturally floats toward him, her hands grazing fallen milkweed and bee balm and honeysuckle. The boy on the bench has been removed, she sees: a blip of the night.

     When she gets to the other side of the shoppe, the man’s hand touches her shoulder reassuringly — she would have to go now, this meant. But before she can put up a fight, or demand to stay in place, she looks through the clear plastic face in front of her to see a Monarch — flittingly, impossibly — tickling the man’s face inside.

 • •

Breadcrumb #85

DALLAS RICO

I couldn't care less what you think, is what I’d like to say as I look Carlos in the eyes and hope he has telepathy. He doesn’t get the message. I try side glances, sighs, a dopey stare. Nada.

     At least I get a meal from a great new restaurant out of this. I wish I hadn’t wasted this awesome outfit, though. I decided to wear my blue Indian-print cardigan with my white dress shirt and gray slacks. I’m even wearing my favorite bow tie. The one with the Texas flag on it. My getup is too fly to waste on this dude.

     I devour my pad thai as he begins his lecture on the evils of Donald Trump. This date is hopeless. I knew that five minutes in. So, the plan is to finish my meal as quickly as possible and get the heck out of dodge.

      “Whoa, slow down there,” he says, chuckling. “What’s the rush?”

     “I eat fast,” I say, mouth chock-full of half-chewed rice noodles and peanuts. Gross, I know, but I stopped caring about etiquette the moment I saw Carlos’s face. The sneaky little catfisher looks so different from his photo. That picture must have been taken, like, five years ago. He looks like he’s gained at least 30 pounds since then and lost half his hair. I’d rather have it the other way around. I almost walked away right then, but he had offered to pay for dinner. I can never turn down a free meal.

     As his dubious gaze lingers I shrug and continue to eat, concentrating on my plate. This goes on for a few more minutes until our waitress comes back to our table. Oddly enough, she brings another waiter with her. A handsome one at that.

     The dashing gentleman accompanying our waitress is a light-skinned Dominican or Puerto Rican with a lined beard that places him somewhere in his early thirties. I notice a small scar near his right eye that makes him look even sexier, like some battle scar from war.

     “I’m really sorry,” our waitress says, with a facial expression that looks like she just lost her puppy, “but I need to handle a family situation. Vance here will take care of you for the rest of the night. Again, I’m really sorry.”

     She hurries off before we can even respond. Vance comes closer to our table.

     “Sorry about that,” he says, with a soft Latin accent. Could this guy get any sexier? “Would you like some more water, sir?”

     “Yes, please,” Carlos says.

     “Anything for you?”

     I stare into his eyes for a moment. “Yes, I’d like a Moscow mule, please, with plenty of vodka.” A little liquid courage will make this night a bit more interesting.  As Vance nods and walks away I smile and notice Carlos shooting me a look from the side.

A little liquid courage will make this night a bit more interesting.

     “How much do you plan on drinking?” he asks.

     “Oh, just a little.”

     “Anyway, like I was saying,” he continues, talking about politics and the news. Who does that on a first date? I pretend to listen as I slow down my eating and contemplate my next move. Vance makes my heart race. He belongs in a fashion magazine, not in a Thai restaurant. I wonder if he’s single.

     “I thought you said you eat fast,” he says, an incredulous look on his face.

    “Well, you know, I decided to take your advice and slow down. Live a little.” I give him a satisfied grin as I twirl the noodles around my fork. Vance returns with my drink and a pitcher of water.

     “Here you go — Moscow mule with extra vodka.”

     “Thanks. So, Vance, how long have you been working here?”

     “I actually just started a few weeks ago,” he says, smiling. My god, those perfect teeth! We continue to chitchat while Carlos broods like some angsty teenager. Poor boy.

     At the end of our meal, Carlos is practically fuming, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. I’m sure he’s only staying just to be nice. If he had the balls, he would just walk right out on me. That would actually make him kind of attractive. Alas, he sits there and pouts as Vance leaves us the bill. Surprisingly, he still pays for me. I lean in and whisper a soft “thank you,” which causes him to loosen up a little. I almost feel sorry for him. I used to believe there was someone out there for everyone, but people like Carlos make me see otherwise. He is no doubt doomed to a life of Netflix binges over TV dinners and masturbation sessions.

     Me? I’ve got plans. When Vance returns with the receipt, he thanks us and leaves it on the table.

     “What do you think of the service?” Carlos asks with a hint of resentment. Just a hint. “Does he deserve a 15% tip?”

     I shrug. “He was all right, I guess.”

     Carlos signs the receipt and writes in the tip amount.

     “I gotta go to the restroom.”

     The moment he walks away, I grab the receipt and write my name and number at the bottom. Call me Vance, I sign with a little smiley face on the side. I quickly close the receipt book before Carlos can come back and see what I wrote. Maybe it’s a bit desperate to leave my number for a hot server, but I don’t care. At this point, what do I have to lose?

     Carlos returns a few minutes later, and, thankfully, he doesn’t look at the receipt again. We walk outside the entrance together.

     “So, you taking Uber or the subway?” he asks.

     “I think I’ll take Uber.”

     “Want me to wait for you?” he asks, hands in his pocket.

     “No, it’s fine. I think I’ll walk around for a bit.” I’d rather go Oedipus and gouge out my eyeballs than stand another minute with him. I rock back and forth on the balls of my feet. “Well, thanks for the meal.”

      “Yeah, it was my pleasure.” He nods and heads to the subway station.

      Thank god that’s over. When I look at my phone I see a text from Vance. I didn’t expect him to respond so quickly.           

     Vance: Hey
     Me: Hi
     Vance: Sup?
     Me: Oh, nothing. Just thought you were cute, I guess.
     Vance: Weren’t u wit your bf just now?
     Me: No, silly. That’s my cousin.
     Vance: Oh
     Me: Yeah
     Vance: Wyd later tonight?
     Me: Nothing planned…
     Vance: Ok

     Then there’s a pause that makes me anxious. Did I say something wrong? I review my texts several times for spelling errors or something inappropriate. Is he just waiting for me to initiate? Leaving my phone number should be a clear sign I’m interested. Finally he responds a few minutes later.       

     Vance: Sorry, we got a little busy. Anyway, text me your addy and we can chill. My shift ends in an hour.
     Me: Ok

     I give him my addy and head home, half expecting him to blow me off. He doesn’t. After two episodes of Breaking Bad, Vance texts me that he’s on his way.

     That night we have some of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. Then he doesn’t call me the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after. I’m tempted to go back to the restaurant, but I’m much too proud for that because…you know, dignity. Only one person gets what they want in this story.

• • •