A Purple Butterfly Earring

Although we have not announced it, the whole town knows that Lily and I are together. Our eternal union is a foregone conclusion. We field questions about when the babies will come and whether she will take my surname. But for now, we are simply content with each other. Our love blooms like a flower coming into season. We continue exploring each other’s bodies as our lovemaking evolves from novelty to routine.

One evening, we lie in the darkness, eyes wide open, unable to sleep. My eyes cannot make out her features, but I know exactly where they fall into place. Her face sits inches in front of mine.

“Did you ever love someone in New York?”

…

I laid eyes on her my first Sunday in The Big Apple. She wore a strapless purple dress that cut off just above the knees. Her legs were crossed, their smooth skin running down to her mid-length cowboy boots. A butterfly perched itself on the flower in her hair. She perused a magazine, failing to notice me walking back and forth along the path to absorb her slender figure.

Even from a distance, I could smell her lavender perfume. I tried furtively glancing at her long, blonde ponytail that flowed right below the top of her breast. She caught my eyes and I quickly looked away. She flipped another page of her magazine and set it down, staring off into space before turning toward me.

A warm, fuzzy feeling ran through my chest. Her eyes lustfully scanned every inch of my skin. She seductively ran her fingers through her hair, as if to emphasize her promiscuity. I leaned my hand on the bench to prevent myself from literally falling head over heels for her.

She took a step toward me. My mind was fully at ease, locked in on lavender. She could hear my thoughts.

Ladies first.

She smiled a bashful smile. Her dimples revealed themselves.

“What’s a gal gotta do to get a good-lookin fella to ask her out?”

…

Stella was born to a small-town single mother in Texas. Generations of women were knocked up by men who didn’t give a shit about them. Texas restricted abortion, trapping them where they were for the sake of their unborn children.

Her mother raised her to be wary of men since all they did was break hearts. That’s why she’d been left to raise Stella by herself. After inheriting her oil-magnate father’s fortune from a fatal car accident, she fell in love with a charming city boy from Dallas, who convinced her to invest in his startup. She planned on moving to the city with him when they got married. But when she showed up at the altar, she found a priest with a note in his hand which read that the groom wasn't coming. The man whose child sat in her womb had taken her money and gone. With no other option, she faded away in the run-down country mansion that her father had once owned, refusing to part with her final remnant of him. And that was where Stella grew up.

Stella set great expectations for herself. She harbored dreams of living a life her mother never could, far away from the tragedy that had befallen her mother. The appeal of the city lights and frenetic energy set her sights on The Big Apple. She was twenty-one years old and finishing her final year of college, for which she’d received a full scholarship after finishing two years of community college. She aimed for a new life in a city where she could be whoever she wanted.

And there I was, vying for a part of that life.

Traditional relationship timelines were tossed out the window—I called her my girlfriend after a month of dating, and we moved in together after three. But no matter how close we grew, no matter how often she let me hold her hand, no matter how many sweet kisses I planted upon her cheeks (or how much I shoved my tongue down her throat), she stood firm on her resolution not to have sex before marriage. She had solemnly vowed to her mother never to let a man break her heart, and I was no exception.

Nine months came and went, intimacy dominating my thoughts. I saw it in every woman I passed on the street. I pictured ripping off the business attire of women at work and ravishing their bodies. I watched porn for hours on end, far past pleasuring myself, purely watching other human beings engage in the sacred act which I could not. My longing to be inside Stella only grew. Yet despite my pleas, Stella remained true to her vow.

On our one-year anniversary, I came home early to surprise Stella with a bouquet of lilies–her favorite. I had to walk forty minutes up town to the only flower shop open in the middle of winter. There was a blistering cold that no number of thick coats, knitted mittens, or earmuffs could alleviate. Snow piled on the sidewalks. I managed to keep the lilies intact throughout my journey home. My heart was giddy as I walked up the dilapidated stairs to our apartment door.

I heard noises in the hallway that sounded like porn. I thought it was a hallucination, but there was no mistaking it–two people were doing the deed. As I walked closer to my apartment, the sounds became louder.

I put my ear against my door. The man’s grunts were too real for entertainment, like someone was doing it right there in my living room. And the woman’s moans were at irregular intervals–a stark contrast to the predictable, rhythmic moans in the videos.

Stella didn’t watch porn.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. There she was, legs spread, a man thrusting in and out of her. She glanced in my direction. I expected her face to turn white with fear, but received a devilish smile instead. The man continued thrusting. She pulled him closer. I watched in horror as she let him finish inside her. She forced him off when he was done, casually putting her clothes back on.

“I’ll see myself out.” Her bags were packed. She lugged them out of her bedroom and pretended to straighten her frazzled hair. The man assured me that he didn’t know Stella was with someone, but profound sobs drowned out his words. Stella had shattered two hearts with one fell swoop. The lover finally pulled off and discarded his condom, after which he dared not refuse my request for him to take out the trash on his way out.

After he left, I noticed on my coffee table the single article that Stella had left behind.

A purple butterfly earring.

…

There are tears in Lily’s eyes. Each choked-up sob feels like a dagger in my heart, prompting me to cry as well. Through tears, I tell her that I stopped watching porn altogether, though the sexual thoughts continued long after. For years afterward, I constantly visualized my manhood inside a faceless woman. I pictured how her opening would clamp tightly around me, the pressure making me burst in an instant. But in the depths of my heart, I secretly waited for the right person–the one who would love me instead of use me. It isn’t until I pour my heart out to Lily that I finally realize this. I’d wanted sex, but desired love.

With Lily, I have both.

My brain can no longer picture Stella’s features. I concentrate on visualizing her body, on mentally removing her sweater and fondling her gigantic breasts. But I simply cannot.

Besides our love making, it’s only when I think of Lily that I get hard–only when I picture myself inside her that I finish when she’s away. When I tell her this, I twist away in embarrassment, thinking that she will be disgusted. But she pulls me toward her, curling herself against my back while I whimper in despair.

I’d be lost without her.

…

She’s never worn the twenty-four karat necklace that I bought her, but keeps a framed photo from our first date as her lock screen. I’d insisted on a steakhouse, but she’d wanted simple. So we met up at Chili’s.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Ketchup-stained faces from late-night food fights. A list of names for our future children. Afternoon naps on lazy Sundays. Texting back and forth throughout the workday until we could curl up on the couch and watch our favorite show.

I bought the house in both our names, despite the fact that she couldn’t contribute as much to the mortgage. We forsook a pre-nup at our wedding; she’s in it for the long haul. As I watch her walk down the aisle in her flowy white dress, her shape blurs through tears forming in my eyes. I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with her. Even when we’re gone, our bodies will rest next to each other, immutable in time. We plan to be buried holding hands. Scores will turn into centuries, the flowers on our graves will have long wilted. But our hands shall remain in each other’s, our flesh eternally fused as one.

…

She lies in my arms at twilight. The moon glows, illuminating the way for those who walk the streets. She runs the tips of her hands along each empty finger. Her eyes dart between each hand, as if she expects something grand to appear. She interlocks her fingers with mine.

Her head looks up. Her face shows a wistful happiness, a pining for something she knows she cannot have.

“What is it, my dear?” I whisper.

She says nothing, only stares at her ring finger.

“Babe?” I sit up, concerned.

She sighs.

“I–no, it’s too much to ask.”

“What is it, Lily?”

Her fingers instinctively pull at the strains of her hair.

“N-nothing.” Her voice cracks.

“Lily. Look at me.”

She does not stir. I put a hand tenderly on her shoulder. Her head turns to the side.

“Lily.”

My voice is gentle but firm. The half second she turns toward me lasts an eternity, and when it finishes, a tear flows gently down her cheek. An obstructive hand covers the lower half of her face. I try to take her in my arms. She recoils.

“Lily, what’s wrong? Have I done something to upset you?”

“Nothing–it’s, it’s stupid!”

She breaks out into wailing. My heart aches at her pain. I want to rub my hand against her back and soothe the hurt. But she doesn’t want my touch.

Her phone sits next to her leg. I see a Google search for wedding rings.

“Lily.” I wipe a tear off her face. “Is this about a ring?”

She gets her words out through sniffles. “I-I know I said I didn’t want you to waste all your money on a f-fancy rock. B-but…I changed my mind, okay?” Her eyes look at my face, but stare at something behind me that isn’t there. “I know it’s silly after what we discussed, about how that money could go toward our kids’ college fund. But I want something to celebrate being together. A special marker of us. But all the ones I really want, they’re too expensive. It’s too much!”

My throat nearly closes up. Her unhappiness makes me want to stab the pain until it bleeds a long, slow death.

“Nothing is too much for you.”

I pick up her phone and scroll through the results. “Which one do you want? This one? Or this one? How about this one?” I point at image after image without pausing. “Fuck it, I’ll buy them all!”

Her tears dry quickly, sonorous laughter replacing them. I pick up dark undertones, as if she’s congratulating herself on a part well played. Stella’s face flashes in my mind, but Lily’s never shown the slightest sign of scheming. We stay up until two in the morning picking a thirty-thousand-dollar Laurence Graff. I’m exhausted by the end, but it was worth it.

As the years pass, she loosens up on how much I can spend on gifts, letting me adorn her with lavish jewels and art works galore. Some evenings before bed, I imagine hearing shades of that sinister, sardonic laughter, a wicked witch scheming in her lair. If anything, I’m applying Stella’s character to Lily, which is unfair to my wife. When I look around our bedroom, I see far more opulence than I had imagined for our quaint suburban home in Tennessee. But watching Lily light up whenever I add to her gold collection makes my heart full.

…

“I want a divorce.”

The words are a punch I never saw coming. My legs wobble underneath me until I collapse onto my knees. My lungs struggle to find air, each heartbeat tugging against my chest. The rug has been yanked from under me. Beneath lies a ravine whose hellish fires burn my flesh.

“Lily…”

Her lips make shapes, but the ringing in my ears is too loud to hear the words.

The next week passes in a blur. I think she moved out that night; I faintly recall her bags being packed. She handed me a thick stack of divorce papers and assured me that she’d return in a week to collect them. I tried to get through them, but each day I found myself lost on the first page, starting over only to lose focus again, trying to make sense of what had happened. An hour before Lily is scheduled to show up, I decide to sign the papers regardless of consequence. She enters with bags by her sides. My heart swells with hope.

“So, you’ve decided to change your mind?”

She looks at me, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“About the divorce.” I point to her bags. “You’re moving back in, aren’t you?”

She yanks the papers from my hands, takes a few pictures with her phone, and sends them to someone. “Yes, I’m moving in. And you’re moving out.”

“What do you mean? This is my house.”

“Our house,” she reminds me. “Based on the papers you signed, you’ve agreed to give me the house in exchange for an earlier end to your alimony. I was gonna demand monthly payments for the next twenty years, but giving me the house brings it down to five. Seems reasonable, doesn’t it?”

My mouth cannot form words.

“You can sleep in the guest bedroom tonight. You move out tomorrow.”

Here I am, heart shattered, back where I started. I attract the worst kind of women, a light drawing moths instead of a flower luring butterflies. I gather my things from the master bedroom, making my way to the riches I’ve gifted my soon-to-be ex-wife. Before I can touch them, Lily swats my hand away.

“The agreement, Henry. You gave me these items as gifts. They stay with me.”

I nod in silent acquiescence. A life of love and laughter, millions of dollars in gifts, but not a single sign it was going down the drain. I stare at the ceiling of my marital home for the last time, failing to fall asleep, questioning if love has ever existed, or if people simply convince themselves it does. Ten years have passed, but the scars remain etched on my heart, unfading, still fresh.

I've come to terms with Stella’s reasoning. A daughter avenging the wrongs committed against her mother by the male sex.

But Lily?

I still don’t know why.

…

She sits in her bedroom, walls decorated in gold. It’s far more than her mother ever had. Back where she’s from, women succumb to the desires of the male sex. Her mother, grandmother, and the women of centuries past gave up everything for the men they loved, none of whom turned out to love them. Men had beaten them, chewed them up, and spit them right back out into poverty. It was time to break the cycle.

She had done it all: left her tiny Texas town, made her way to The Big Apple, and found herself in a Nashville suburb, extracting life out of a man who had let love blind him. She’d spent her twenties playing him like a fiddle, which set her up for life. The woman of many names was ready to call it quits. She grew weary of the ease of manipulating men simply by whispering exactly what they wanted to hear, by withholding her body and proffering it to another man, or by capitalizing on male vulnerabilities. She had more than avenged the forgotten women in her hometown. Now, she owed it to female posterity to not only break the cycle, but to change it.

A flight to Dallas. A two hour drive east.

She put on a purple butterfly earring, ready to head back to Winnsboro and show the girls how it was done.