His eyelashes brush my cheek, fluttering and soft. Mariposa, I think. Butterfly. He moves to press his lips against the soft flesh just behind the lobe of my ear, sending delightful shivers through my body. His tongue slides over the same spot, then he nips my ear with his teeth. Absentmindedly, I wonder why we don't do this more often. "Beautiful," he whispers. I wake up suddenly to the sound of a car door slamming outside my window on the street below. Staring at the ceiling, its pale popcorn texture serving as a prime background for the dream replaying over and over in my head, I reach out for the extra pillow I'd begun sleeping with. I hug it to my chest and roll toward the window, tangling the covers around my legs. Tucking my chin over my fluffy bedfellow, I squeeze my eyes shut. It hurts. My eyes are puffy and crusty. I open them again. Outside, the sunlight seems grainy and unreal. I shift my muscles to see if other senses feel dulled after the vivid pleasure of my dream, and it is confirmed. A butterfly, simple but graceful, alights upon the outside sill of my window. "Mariposa," I say, the spanish word sliding off my tongue with ease. "Mariposa."
The butterfly flexes its wings open and closed. I study the orange, brown, and black pattern, the careful lines and curves that nature gifted this six-legged creature with. Suddenly, the butterfly lifts away, riding a current of wind that propels it much too high for me to view from my vantage point on the bed. I stare out the window, unseeing, murmuring, "Mariposa."
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