Saving Butterflies

Mitchell and I are in the country to decide the fate of our marriage. At the inn, an old man spends hours each day tending to the pool, skimming it slow and snail-like, scooping up clumps of debris and dropping them to the concrete with a tap-tap-tap. “He’s so slow,” Mitchell remarks. “They should have a machine for that.” One morning, I approach the pool cleaner in between tap-tap-taps. “Butterfly season,” he says. “They’re all suicidal. They go straight for the water and drown unless I pick them out. Beautiful, foolish creatures. Sometimes, I spend an entire day saving butterflies.”