Mariposa

One day, after brooding in his garden, a man entered his house to find a beautiful woman standing there, dressed in a richly colored skirt.  Was she a thief?  Her hands were empty.

Who are you? he asked.  What do you want?

She made no reply, merely looked at him and walked out.  He followed her to her car, leaned in, and demanded to know who she was. At last she said, I don¹t have to tell you, and drove away.

The man watched the car disappear, much disturbed.  Was loneliness driving him mad?  Had he imagined her, after all? But no—luck happens as well as catastrophe, he told himself.  I’ll find her again.

He went into the city, past a flash of billboards, past window curtains blown outwards, past flags, yellow taxis, laundry waving from fire escapes. He stopped at a bright skirt fluttering into a revolving door, but it wasn’t hers. For days he looked without result, until one evening, as he sat exhausted, the door opened, and in she walked.  She gazed at him, said nothing, and left.

The man, too startled to move, began to realize that the time he spent pursuing her might be wasted.  What if he were gone when she came again?

He began to cultivate the art of waiting, the science of watching for her. Nothing colorful or unpredictable escaped his notice.  His eyes became butterflies, swooping and resting for no apparent reason on whatever they saw.  He dreamed of her dancing through his house with the bright colors of her skirt streaming out around her.

At last she appeared again.  She walked in, went to the kitchen, and began to cook for him.  They sat at the table and laughed as if they knew each other well.  He tried not to ask too many questions, or to hope that she would grant him power over her.  Instead he sang to her in the language of color, Ella tiene una falda de muchos colores. Ella baila como una mariposa.*

*She wears a skirt of many colors.  She dances like a butterfly.

Charlotte Muse