The morning air froze the tips of my fingers, chilled the button of a nose I’ve reluctantly come to love—draped in wool I stepped outside, hoping to find a few brightly coloured fliers that filed to migrate. Sure enough, though the leaves had fallen, leaving a dusting of red across my nets, a few were caught inside the mesh.

I’ve always been fond of butterflies—the intricate patterns of their wings, the fragility of their existence. There’s always that moral struggle, how to quietly put them to sleep forevermore. With a little plastic box in hand, I’d pluck the beauties from their entanglement, carefully setting them within. It was just chilly enough without the sun, bodies already set to reserve power, sleeping until the sun could hit them. Hopefully, they’d never wake and suffer from knowing their lives were soon to end, pins pressed through every part of their figure. I tried to be gentle with them, two fingers holding them gently by the thorax, making sure no wings were bent. It’s tedious, sure—yet I’d like to think it was an art, and the payoff is always satisfying. Even so, I feel horrible in the process.

One or two of them woke, trying to set themselves free, only to be caught in my synthetic clutches. My heart sunk with each beat of wings, seeing them slowly give up, relax and accept that there’s nothing outside this mass grave of unnatural forces. Yet I had been doing this for years, and got more than enough cash for it. Grow hundreds of worms in spring with traps outside, then dry and position—it’s harder when you raise them yourself, name them, watch them grow. But it was all part of the job, and it bought that house, and it kept me going without the stress of performance or waking before my mind has slept. Being freelance—no, working in arts—was what made me able to survive and provide, though Aiden surely helped, once dual income was added into the mix.

I brought them back to the house—this box full of bugs, many of which struggled in their confinement, bouncing against the walls, clawing at the light. There was maybe a dozen of them, their temporary home placed in the back of the fridge. Though crisp autumn air had put most of them to sleep already, I thought it best to make sure they were all unconscious before locking them in containers full of fumes, ripe for draining away their life. I’d never the heart to watch them take the final breaths, or watch them after locking them away—just check back in an hour later, pin, and sell. I tried to be as humane as I could, couldn’t live with myself otherwise—still it’s hard.

After checking my nets and reliving them of prey, deciding the season—though short—was at an end, I was left to go out, and further retrieve them. With heavy footsteps, I made my way through trails of broken leaves coloured a deeper red than I had remembered. It was easier to find the branches now, their coats shed and dispersed among untamed grasses. The little metal hooks came down, only a few branches were snapped.

““What’re those nets?” a startling voice—sweet, soft, holding an odd foreign tinge that was surprisingly close to home. Her words were soft, though having been occupied with taking down her very object of curiosity, I was caught off guard for a moment.

Though it felt slimy, I looked her figure up and down—most notably her face of course, I’d never any affections for women. She had the tiniest of horns, those teardrop shaped ears, a smattering of white freckles across her face—it nicely contrasted with her tanned skin, a tone just a bit lighter than Aiden’s, though far darker than my own. “They catch bugs, they swoop in for the sugar water or honey, and then...they get caught when they try to fly up,” I explained rather promptly after coming to my senses, leaving out any unsightly details.

She’d nod, rather cute, youthful in her expression of understanding, “That’s interesting—are you the new neighbour?” I should have expected the question—came after a moment of silence, previous thoughts having been quickly silenced.

“Oh—yes, me and my husband moved in down the road just a week or so ago, yes,” I was hesitant on using that word, the “H” word, as most aren’t used to hearing it even now. She took it well, hardly taken aback. Nonetheless, I stepped closer and offered out my hand, setting nets aside in the process, “Sokolov, Rozny.”

She responded, doing the same. Curtly, two firm shakes, we separated after that moment of contact—she had French tips, they matched those little anti-melanin pockets on her cheeks, “Berdea, Dierdre. A pleasure.”

“A pleasure,” that first name matched the pronunciation of someone in Aiden’s maternal family, along with that unmistakable accent. Surely, I wasn’t overstepping any boundaries—if I had, it didn’t show. My voice had cracked when I tread that line, careful as always, “So sorry, might be invasive, but, are you a bit Irish?”

She’d nod, “Aye, from the garden. Came here for university, settled down afterwards.”

“Same with mine’s, whole family, really. Been out there, gorgeous place.”

“Glad it gets some appreciation, Dublin gets too much attention, my opinion, though,” I couldn’t help but chuckle a tidge—she wasn’t wrong, I had always found things more interesting outside of major cities like that. Guess that’s how I ended up in Foghenge, same goes for that partner of mine. This girl was sweet though, and conversation dragged on for some time—sweet nothings and small talk trod in circles. She seemed rather excited to hear of someone from her area moving in, wanted to talk rather persistently about Ireland, weather comparisons more than anything—some interest in my husband as well, perfectly innocent, “There’s a community barbeque type thing going on this Saturday—you two should stop by!”

It sounded like a lovely idea—who wouldn’t want an opportunity to be sardine packed into an area with your entire new neighbourhood, stomachs doused in meat an alcohol, perfect for introductions. But, there was the lingering concern of political matters that held me back, an excess of anxiety surrounding acceptance and rejection, “Ah…I would, but, we’re still unpacking, and I’d rather have it done before snowfall hits,” I made an excuse, a bit too naturally.

“Oh! That’s alright, I get it—we have them every couple months just for fun. If you can make it though, please come! We just do it down on the beach—a not the most fun to walk on, but, sometimes the guys’ll catch a fish and grill it up right there! If they’re lucky, that is, but—it’s fun! I think you’d fit in, we could use a new face!” she rambled, perhaps just as anxious as myself when faced with something new. I did my best to nod, look as if I was taking in all the necessary information.

“I’ll be sure to stop by if we do, thank you, Dierdre.”

“Sure thing! I’m just right down the road here if you ever need company, or help with anything!” an air of excessive giddiness and excitement clung to her—it was almost uncomfortable.

There’s something about people that are always happy, forcefully positive, that’s just downright uncomfortable. But, she was a sweet girl, I’m sure she meant well—though that’s just about the worst thing you can say about a person, kind of implies they did poorly, doesn’t it? We forced out goodbyes, as I had been clearly encumbered by the retrieval of my netting. I thought about the invitation on the way home, whether I should even put it to mind or calendar—that’d surely be the polite thing to do, though it wasn’t something I wanted to entertain at all. I was a victim of late night news—hyped up and brought fear by the stories of a few bad experiences, I shouldn’t have been so hesitant. It was just food.