Two

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

My feet lightly slap along the concrete in tune with my lungs, nostrils flaring when I push myself a fraction faster to keep pace with the ebony ponytail swinging ahead of me. Her dark head disappears beyond the bend in the path despite my quickening pace, and I bite my cheek, pushing myself to keep her in my sight.

I've been thinking about this for days. I'm not about to let her fly away now.

"Do you run here often?" Earbuds are pulled from her left ear as she tilts her face my way, eyes widening ever so slightly at my nearness. I lift my leg up onto the park bench and tighten my shoelaces as her perfectly whitened teeth flash.

"Did you say something? Sorry, I didn't hear you." Her tongue darts out to wet her parted lips, eyes following my face as I stand and lower my foot from the bench. I don't miss the way she takes a slight step away from me.

"I just asked if you run here often. I'm new to the area and I haven't had great success finding a new running spot."

I see the moment she relaxes, fingers unflexing from the scrunched fabric of her athletic top. "Oh yea, I run almost every morning. It's great here." She gestures to her left with her thumb, her long black ponytail swinging over her shoulder with the movement. My eyes are drawn to the shiny strands, the inky black reminding me of the soft flap of a White Admiral's wings as they blow in the soft breeze. "This way ends on the east side of the park. It's my favorite because of the trees."

I stretch my arm over my chest, raising a brow at her. "The trees?"

She smiles, a small laugh scrunching up her nose in a way that makes my gut flutter. "Yea, the trees." Her lips pinch in another smile, a flirty flush marking her cheeks before she continues. "It's more secluded than the other side of the park. I don't feel like everyone is watching me there."

I nod at her, giving her a smile of my own as I look past her and down the path. "I might have to get a look at these trees of yours." Pulling the earbuds from my pockets, I put one in my ear, winking at her as I step around her. "Maybe I'll see you tomorrow?"

I had seen her the next day. And the day after. And often enough to know that she runs four days a week, although the days vary. I've been running for weeks, something I thought I'd never do, just to see her dark ponytail sway on the path ahead of me every morning. No matter what though, she always runs on Thursday, and just like she said the first time we met, the east path is her favorite. She never runs any other way; always shows up fifteen minutes before dawn, always takes five to eight minutes to stretch before she runs, Shakira blasting from her earbuds.

Thanks to her, I've had "Hips Don't Lie" on a loop in my head every fucking day.

We don't talk much; a few sentences at most before we separately start our exercise. We haven't even exchanged names, but it's unnecessary. I've learned everything I needed in the time we didn't talk. It takes my Limenitis camilla, my little black-and-white butterfly, just over forty minutes to finish her run. The last ten minutes are always spent at a more leisurely pace than the rest. She takes her time winding through the heaviest growth of trees and bushes, watching the sun finish rising through the branches.

I'll admit it took me a few days to be able to look past the decorative slits in the leggings that fit like a glove over her long legs, or the smooth curve of her slim waist. Even longer to keep my gaze off of the long, overgrown length of her ebony hair. It shines and snaps when she runs, smells sweet and floral when it catches on the breeze. I know it'd look even more beautiful wrapped around my fist. It's my favorite part of my Limenitis camilla.

Although everything about her is almost perfection, I can't help but feel like she's missing something. She's beautiful, but not flawless, and I know exactly what she needs.

The thought has me picking up my pace again, eyes lasering in on that glorious swaying hair when it comes back into view. She knows I'm here. I often run behind her, so my increased speed won't be alarming to her. The smack of my shoes on the path fills my ears as I press closer, the earbuds in my ears silent as always. I've never used them to listen to music. They're only there to give the illusion, so my little butterfly feels comfortable enough to take her personal phone calls when I'm near or mumble her favorite song lyrics. She has no idea I'm privy to every conversation she's had during these last few weeks on her run and heard every off-key song.

I'm close enough now that I can hear the faint thumping of her music through her earbuds, and if I strain enough to listen, every loud inhale and exhale that leaves her chest. Every step closer has my heart thumping more roughly against my ribs, has my lungs sucking in almost too much air. My fingers bite into my palms as I pump my arms, keeping them confined within my own clutch instead of straining to touch the silk of her hair. Being this close to her always makes me shake, makes my mouth water in anticipation.

Ripping my eyes off her back, I scan the path, my feet almost losing grip with the jolt that races along my spine. We're almost to the final stretch, my little butterfly's pace starting to slow as she relaxes a bit. I choke down the knot in my tightening throat, taking a quick look behind my back as we get swallowed up by more trees, the path becoming more and more secluded with every step that's slapped onto the pavement.

I've thought about this so many times that it almost feels surreal to finally be here, in this moment. The anticipation has been gnawing at my neck like a rabid dog, ripping and tearing into my will to be patient from the second my eyes landed on my butterfly's ebony wings. The sweat slicking down my nape, dripping between my shoulder blades, scrapes along the goosebumps lining my skin. If I wanted, I could reach out and run my fingertips along the soft fabric of my Limenitis camilla's shirt. I'm that close. My lips part as I mentally count down the seconds, knowing exactly how many steps it'll take us to get to a very specific curve in the path.

Four Mississippi.

The pounding in my chest is almost painful, my feet shadowing my butterfly perfectly.

Three Mississippi.

I can smell that intoxicating sweet scent of her hair, almost feel the dark strands as they wave back toward my face.

Two Mississippi.

My gaze leaves her for just a fraction of a moment, flickering between her ebony wings and the weeping willow we're coming up to.

One Mississippi.

My fingers grace along the back of her head, whispering through the strands of her hair, my fingertips burning against the soft silk before sinking into her scalp. My leg comes forward with hers, looping around the front of her shin while my elbow and hand shove her head forward. Her hair turns violent, almost slicing my fingers as she catapults toward the pavement, ebony strands burning from my palm as her face meets the ground with a wet slap and crunch that mutes the startled yelp that leaves her lips.

She slides forward on the pavement, her body momentarily scrunching like an accordion, arms, hands and face scratching along the coarse ground as an earbud flies from her ear to skip and roll off of the path. Almost heaving, I step over her moaning, writhing form, purposefully stepping onto a hand that's blindly searching the ground by her head. There's already a small splattering of blood painted across the pavement from her initial hit, abstract art spreading around to accentuate the soft fluttering of her dark wings. It's so beautiful I almost get lost in it, but her low groan draws my attention back to the task at hand, and I tug my fingerless gloves from my pocket, slipping them on as I watch her slowly wiggle under me.

I bend over to bring the end of her long, tangled ponytail to my face and take a deep breath, savoring that floral beauty until my lungs burn and I'm forced to exhale. My tongue comes out to wet my lips as I wind it around my fist, slowly wrapping it around and around and around, until it's so tight I almost can't feel my fingers. Digging into the hair at the base of the elastic, I tilt my butterfly's face up off the pavement, admiring the red and brown mixed over her beautiful features. She's making small little noises, eyes trying to fight their way open.

Fuck, I want to kiss her, taste the dirt clinging to her cheeks, lick the blood from her teeth. But this isn't about my selfish wants this time, this is all about my butterfly. I've thought long and hard about this, spent nights sweating in my sheets over the images. Today, my butterfly will finally be flawless.

She will finally be perfect.

Just as her eyes flutter open under my gaze, I slam her face back into the ground and watch her nose crunch and lips split even more. More blood sprays along the ground and I force myself to move my face from the prime-viewing position to hover over her back. I want to see everything, but I can't risk getting overly dirty. Lifting her face, I slam it back down again, eyes fixed on the ground, frantically shifting over the pavement to watch every spray and drop turn black where it lands.

Over and over and over, I slam her head down, blood starting to pool around her, threatening to stain the tips of my sneakers as it creeps close. Her chest stopped moving long ago, her fingers no longer scratching at the ground, legs no longer quivering between mine. She hasn't made any sounds in a long while, however I couldn't help but to keep using her as my paintbrush; stamp her into the pavement with pretty shades of red.

My hands are shaking, arms tired when I finally stop. I take my time unwrapping her ebony locks, my fingers tinted a light purple, the edges of my knuckles etched with red lines from being pinched for so long. I step back toward her legs before the red ripples surrounding her can reach me, my lips parting as I stare down at what can only be described as absolute perfection.

My butterfly's arms are fanned out from her body, one bent oddly toward herself while the other reaches past her head, palm up. Her face is flat against the pavement, perfectly fitted to every bump and ripple in the coarse ground, the blood sprayed around her almost reminiscent of a pair of torn and mangled wings. I can't help the laugh that bubbles from me, my hand coming up to cover my mouth as I smile down at her.

I knew she'd be nothing short of stunning.

I just knew it.

It takes me a few tries to unzip the pocket on my joggers, my hands trembling as I pull out the black-and-white origami butterfly I'd made just for her last night. I was careful when tucking it into my pocket this time. I wanted its wings to be as perfect as my butterfly. Holding it up, I cover her head from my view, the red wings stroking lovingly along the pavement wrapped around the small piece of paper. Stunning. Lifting my foot over her, I step off to the side, careful not to step into the growing, murky puddle that's seeping into her clothes. I bend and carefully place the butterfly in her palm, skimming my fingertips along her skin as I stand.

Pulling my eyes from her, I look down at my clothes, my hands brushing over my shirt as I feel for wetness. A small amount of red stains my fingertips when I lift them for inspection, but I shrug it off. My clothes and shoes are all black, so it's virtually impossible to see it. As long as I don't touch anything, people will just assume I'm sweaty from my run. Slowly backing away, I admire the way the early sunrays glimmer through the weeping willow's branches, how the shadows twist over my butterfly's still form.

I know I need to get back to my run, that I have maybe twenty minutes before the other routine runners come this way, but I wish I could stay all day. I wish I could sit and listen to Shakira playing from her earbud that's hidden in the grass and watch the blood dry and crust along the edges of her smooth skin. It's truly unfair how little time I get with my butterflies. Turning away, I start to run once more, my eyes fixed on the path, forcing my body to move and not turn back.

Picking up my pace, my knees almost knock together with every step that brings me closer to the end of the path. I can already feel the heat of my skin turning cold now that my butterfly is left behind. I have to remind myself that they may only be mine for a small time, face-to-face, but they live forever in my collection. And my Limenitis camilla will look immaculate hanging next to all the others, her dusty wings frayed along the edges and cracked down the middle.

Like anyone who collects things though, I'm never quite satisfied with what I have. I can already feel the need to start searching for my newest find, feel the tug in my chest urging me for more. But I know that can wait. I need to let my butterfly rest in her box for a bit before I move on to my next pretty. She deserves the attention after such a beautiful performance.

I break from the tree line, curving toward the east park gate. Out of breath, I lean over and palm my knees once I get to the sidewalk, my eyes briefly flicking to the side as a man comes to stand near the bus stop with me.

"Must have been a good run."

I huff at his remark, a smirk twisting my lips as I straighten, watching the bus pull in front of us. "It was perfect."