Burning Butterflies

By the end of the second week, we had little choice but to take a shotgun approach.  The fault of this circumstance lay solely in our hands, rough with procrastination. We had held off on beginning the project through sheer self-interest, our thoughts divided from the task much, if not more so, then our individual attentions to the course. I had taken the course in hopes of finding some significance in my career path. She was simply bored by hard science and statistics. In terms of inspiration and drive, both of us would be found decidedly wanting. In the end, that's what drove our two desks, separated by the margin of twelve other able bodies, together.

We plucked at the idea of our topic for the better part of our first day in the plush mossy carpet of her room. The crowns of our heads locked in hopeful silence for something impressive, or at the very least B worthy. As she pondered over the finer threads on her pillow case I decided simply that her room was too vibrant for her, done up in swirls of blues and fading purple. As if sensing my thought, she provided conflict hesitantly calling out, "Butterflies." Exhausted over a night spent crawling through ideas and artistic metaphor, I latched on.

Our assignment had been deceptively simple, so such a simple response appeared appropriate. Create an artistic rendering of metamorphosis in nature. Yes, if nothing else, a butterfly seemed appropriate. We decided to be satisfied with that and would reconvene the next night to begin working. I left shortly after without a word and appeared the next day in a likewise fashion.

For the remainder of the week, we argued small details. I favored canvas and bold swathes of colored chalk over charcoal backgrounds. I called it a statement in contrast. She called it unoriginal and held up a paintbrush, gesturing to a board bigger than I was. I called her crazy and went with it anyway.

For the background she melded greens and blues, creating melodic clash of brights and darks. It was the first thing we were both satisfied with. While the paint dried we judged each other in silence. She no doubt cast me as peculiar, with frizzy hair and freckles staining my cheeks. I measured her out to be a dull grey, plain features and bland curves. She held my interest as well as wet clay.

As the paint went smooth and flat we shaped the first images huddled in the green corner. A legion of writhing caterpillars moved as a wave central on the canvas. They crawled, belly first and desperately skyward, thinning out in rank to form cocoons. Each one dragged the specter of a silken line, looking more like chips within the frame than the delicate sticky webbing such creatures make. I chose not to comment.

Stretching for the upper right I made the cocoons burst. Shredded bits and pieces decorated the bottom edge like candy wrappers. Only a few had begun to writhe into symmetrical wet wings, still maintaining the shriveled look of their counterparts. It was at this point that our hands collided.

"How many?" She asked, withdrawing her hand as if burnt. The reddish hue of her cheeks removed the poison from the action as soon as I witnessed it. The space between us seemed to buckle and shorten in the pressure of the silence. I vaguely noted that she could probably count my freckles as well as I could count the flecks of color in her eyes at this distance.

"Just two." With careful hands we molded the flutter of wings in the upper corner, rising into the blue. The finer details within the wings shimmered to life in bold statements of pastel color, standing out among the dull browns and greens. Upon compulsion they seemed almost entwined by the end of our painting, leaving the canvas while we held our breath. Standing back, after hours of pain staking labor, it seemed beautiful.

"It's still missing something." It was a quiet statement, almost an aside or perhaps a reluctant admission. After a few moments, I noticed it too. The canvas, though filled and beautiful, had something subtle about it that made it seem hollow. It was something frustratingly understated that I couldn't hope to put my finger on.

Together, we drew back and receded into our seats, minds dead set on puzzling out our missing part within the frame. We found ourselves, an hour later, and we passed twilight, still on her bed. Our brains sparked and faded out as we passed ideas and dismissed them. Soon, we claimed temporary surrender and she led me to her door with the promise of figuring it out in the morning.

As I turned to leave, the faint whisper of lips and breath and lips caught my cheek in what could have been an accident. The rushed closing of her front door led me to believe otherwise. I walked back to my house, still clutching at the mark in burnt confusion.

The next day came far too slowly for my comfort, and when it finally dawned I was disappointed. She had been absent during class, and when I called her after school I got no answer. I found myself pacing my room shortly after, every so often bringing a hand to brush over my cheekbone. Like some horrible bird, thoughts of her filled my head and joined the flutter of wings in my stomach. I walked straight to her house after dinner to finish the painting or maybe just to see her. I still wasn't certain by the time I approached her door.

I waited outside, frustrated until it opened. I brushed by her in a haze of stuttering thoughts and heartbeat, leaving her to trail me to her room. We sat in silence until I managed to spit something out. "I know what it's missing." Without awaiting a response, I pulled out a plastic lighter, setting it against the corner where the butterflies drifted. I sat perched for a moment before blowing it out.

"Why did you do that?" She seemed more shocked than I would have expected. I noted the wrinkle of her brow and the white of taught knuckles. She seemed much more vibrant in this moment. She matched her room this way.

"Now it has more dimensions. It's a metaphor. Like a relationship, starting out and growing till it sores into something alive and on fire." On some level, I think it was a silly sort of thing to say, but I needed something to fill the silence. I didn't dare look at her for a moment, wondering what the hell my problem was. The pressure of a hand coming to rest on mine forced my eyes up to her smile. The tint of red brushing her cheeks almost made my heart flip. The kiss managed it though, I think.

"Perfect."

The teacher apparently didn't think so. The simple C+ resting between the cocoons and discarded caterpillars marred the painting worse than our "accidental scorch mark" ever could. It was fine though, in the end the portrait wasn't all too important to either of us. Gazing across twelve able bodies to find a smile that sparked in my chest was reward enough.