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The Other Woman

Walking home through the early dark, carrying yellow flowers for his wife, he passed a car parked half on the sidewalk and half in the street. As he walked around it he could see that it was filled with moths, which beat gently against the windows, as though they could slip through and fly up to the streetlight. The street was quiet. He cupped his free hand against the driver’s side window and looked in: the car was otherwise empty. He stood up and looked around: all the buildings lining the street were dark, and though the sky still held faint light, it would soon be fully dark as well. He surprised himself then by trying the car’s door and was doubly surprised to find it open. Surely those moths would want to fly free. What should he do? He thought of his wife and the flowers he’d bought her, that seemed to have gathered the remaining light, these flowers she loved, that would make her so happy, at least for a moment. He set them down on the pavement and slipped into the car, waving his hands to shoo the moths free. He would do this for a few minutes, then get out and walk home with his flowers. Maybe she was cooking something special for him, right now, or maybe she’d opened a fresh bottle of wine. She’d love these flowers, and she’d love the fact that he’d thought of her, that he’d gotten just the kind of flowers she loved most. But instead of flying free, the moths had started landing on his face, in his hair. They stuck themselves to him so tightly he couldn’t wave them loose; when he brushed at them more violently their guts smeared all over his hair and shirt. What a mistake! Just a minute ago he’d been smartly groomed; now he was covered in moth-gunk and wing-dust. So he stepped out of the car and picked up his flowers, which were only slightly worse for the wear. He slammed the car door and turned to walk home with some of those moths still clinging to him, as the car alarm—activated by the angry slam he’d given the door—let forth a huge siren, which echoed up and down the street, causing other car alarms to wail loudly in response. And the moths beat against him as though he were a street light even as he started running down that avenue, chased now by a beautiful woman he hadn’t noticed before, who swung a butterfly net around her head and cried “Stop! It’s hopeless! You’ll never get away!”