What type of butterflies were they? She'd said once but he didn't listen. "Then the agent takes us into the living room and there's this giant, awful flutter of ____ butterflies all over the walls!" Monarch? Were there other kinds?
She didn't want the place. She'd shuffled her feet in the kitchen when the agent left them alone. Her shoes squeaked against the linoleum. "We'll have to redo everything." Sunlight from the bare window hit a line of raindrops remaining on her shoulder.
The money had been convincing. It convinced her to move in. It convinced her to move out. He spent the last of his on rubber gloves and giant bottles of vinegar, ammonia and liquor. The smell burnt. The Monarchs were getting exterminated tonight.
The first sheet came down in one enormous chunk revealing hidden messages on the wall: "If nothing changed, there'd be no butterflies."
He drank.
