The subway car stops. Doors slide open. A crush of commuters wait for passengers to get out, then scramble for seats or jam themselves into nooks. The last ones grab onto straps and metal bars as the doors slide shut. The car shudders into motion. Tired faces succumb to a shared complacency.
A Portuguese woman with grocery bags balanced on her lap is the first to notice the butterfly flitting above. It is red and green with splashes of sunny yellow. She has been irritated about her son who recently quit school. What’s he going to do now, spend the rest of his life staying out late, doing who knows what? The sight of the butterfly curlicuing in the air startles her. Where did it come from? How on earth did it get into a subway car? The woman quickly crosses herself. Who knows in what direction this life will lead us? It all ends the same anyway. She is seized by an ache of affection for her son and cradles the grocery bags to her bosom.
A young office executive sees the butterfly. His neck chafes against his collar; sweat trickles behind his ears. He has been dreaming about the new temp at his office. Every day this week he found one excuse or another to go up to talk with her, wanting desperately to ask her out, but his nerve always failed him at the last minute. The butterfly’s aimless movements seem to mock his own awkwardness. He nurses a small ugly pleasure at the thought of its entrapment, and yet, it floats freely while he’s wedged between someone’s shoulder and another’s knapsack. If only he could free the words that are wedged between his heart and his brain. He watches the butterfly enviously, longing to capture and give it to the woman of his dreams.
A little girl tries to grab at the butterfly and tugs at her father’s pant leg, whining for him to lift her up closer. Now others are looking up, some gasping, others laughing. A surge of excitement crackles throughout the subway car.
The butterfly, as if sensing it now has a captive audience, displays a unique gracefulness, fluttering haphazardly above their heads or swooping gently among them, its fragile presence inspiring a hushed awe. One woman’s eyes fill with tears as she is reminded of her ailing mother back in Reykjavik. Then a great cheer arises as the butterfly lands momentarily on the orange Mohawk of a scowling Chinese punk rocker, too cool to let on that he feels special.
The train pulls into the next station. The doors open and the butterfly, swept up by a subterranean breeze, flies out the subway car. No one else moves. All eyes follow its zig-zagging ballet over the platform. The doors close and the train jerks forward. Everybody cranes their necks for a last glimpse of the butterfly until, inside the tunnel, the windows darken, reflecting back their fixed expressions.
A painting. Beautifully done! Thank you!