The Instruments - "Papillon". On a hot day, butterflies begin to rust. I first noticed this on the day that Anabelle left me. I was sitting on the patio with a lemonade. The sky was grey, like a cat. I was thinking about what I would do, now that she was gone. I would have so much free time. I was wearing my red baseball cap, the one she hated. The lemonade had gin in it. I could feel it moving in slow motion down my throat and around my stomach. The cars had their windows rolled up. I couldn't remember what days of the week I was supposed to go to work. I couldn't remember where I kept my keys. I couldn't remember the phone numbers of any of my friends. The only thing I could remember was the deep tenor of her voice, the way she used to say my name, before she left me. I watched a butterfly waft up, flutter, settle on the railing. Then it didn't move. I noticed it must have rusted. That must have been what happened; rusted, on a hot day. I kept waiting to know for sure.

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