The Space Between Two Cars (On Romance)
The last few days had been dark and wet, but this afternoon was bright, even as the clouds loomed in the distance. I was in the backseat of the cab distracted trying to reconstruct a dream that had been eluding me since morning.
The driver said something, forcing me to focus and resulting in an audible “Huh?”
“What road do you want to take?” he repeated.
“Whatever will get me there the fastest.”
The car made its way passed the statue of Auguste Rodin in the French Square, heading northwest on Marshal Baghramyan Avenue. I watched the people moving up and down the street, recalling how just a few weeks ago the road was packed with protestors and police cheering together and sharing drinks over the political demise of the national embarrassment known as Serj Sargsyan.
The cab came to a sudden stop.
“A lot of traffic today,” I offhandedly remarked.
“A lot of traffic everyday,” he returned.
Smiling, I turned back toward the window, where in the space between two cars, something caught my eye. Two lily white butterflies living in a world all their own, no more than a few feet wide, moving in a rhythm innate to their being, conducting a ritual of attraction in the middle of the street.
The butterflies danced; colliding, flying apart, colliding again, as the circled one another. Soon they drifted to the adjacent lane, unaware of the bus headed their way.
Seeing it coming but unable to stop it, I imagined the butterflies slamming into the windshield, a unfortunate end to a beautiful moment.
The bus rapidly approached, and just before the moment of truth, the air around the bus pushed one of the butterflies high into the air, allowing it to escape unscathed. The second butterfly was pushed down toward the massive front tire, nearly being crushed by the tread before finding enough strength to force its return to the space between the two cars.
Recovering, the butterfly hovered above the line of cars looking for its mate. But its mate was gone, lost amid the trees that line Baghramyan Avenue and after a few moments, it flew away in the opposite direction, perhaps never to meet each other again.
The cab began to move, the rest of the drive clear of traffic, but everywhere I looked for the remainder of the drive, the streets was filled with white butterflies.
“What road do you want to take?” he repeated.
“Whatever will get me there the fastest.”
The car made its way passed the statue of Auguste Rodin in the French Square, heading northwest on Marshal Baghramyan Avenue. I watched the people moving up and down the street, recalling how just a few weeks ago the road was packed with protestors and police cheering together and sharing drinks over the political demise of the national embarrassment known as Serj Sargsyan.
The cab came to a sudden stop.
“A lot of traffic today,” I offhandedly remarked.
“A lot of traffic everyday,” he returned.
The butterflies danced; colliding, flying apart, colliding again, as the circled one another. Soon they drifted to the adjacent lane, unaware of the bus headed their way.
Seeing it coming but unable to stop it, I imagined the butterflies slamming into the windshield, a unfortunate end to a beautiful moment.
The bus rapidly approached, and just before the moment of truth, the air around the bus pushed one of the butterflies high into the air, allowing it to escape unscathed. The second butterfly was pushed down toward the massive front tire, nearly being crushed by the tread before finding enough strength to force its return to the space between the two cars.
Recovering, the butterfly hovered above the line of cars looking for its mate. But its mate was gone, lost amid the trees that line Baghramyan Avenue and after a few moments, it flew away in the opposite direction, perhaps never to meet each other again.
The cab began to move, the rest of the drive clear of traffic, but everywhere I looked for the remainder of the drive, the streets was filled with white butterflies.
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