BUTTERFLIES

CHAPTER ONE

The chime on the door rang as it opened. I expected to look over and see another college-aged girl with an alt-indie aesthetic and a questionably intense love of Timothée Chalamet. They were always nice, but always scary. And I guess she was one of those girls, from the outside at least. But when I looked over I was struck by an overwhelming wave of butterflies.

I always used to think that butterflies were the nerves you felt when you hung out with a new guy at a high school party or before a public speaking engagement, something you could breathe through. But these butterflies were unshakable. It was like an entire garden of milkweed was planted in my gut, and my ears got hot, so hot that I couldn't hear anything but my heartbeat.

She was tall, blonde, a little more intimidating than a girl-next-door but not scary. Her hair was chopped right below her ears and she wore denim on denim– a light wash jacket and patchwork jeans, something she might have made herself, but not it in an artsy DIY way, more-so in a cool, rough-edges way. It looked like she cut a bunch of different jeans into chunks and sewed them together. And maybe it looked artsy DIY to anyone else, but to me, she was fucking hot. Never have I been so jealous of a barista- what I would have given to speak to her in that moment, even if it was as insignificant as to take her coffee order.

I leaned over my book, attempting to look nonchalant, probably failing, so I could try and overhear her order. Something cold brew, a classic. Suddenly I felt like a wimp with my matcha. Like I was in some way inferior because I couldn't handle more than a medium chai's worth of caffeine. Maybe I was. None of this mattered, though. What mattered is what I did next. I surprised even myself.

"Hey, I love your pants, did you make them?" I said as I stood up and walked over to her, feigning thirst so I could stand next to her while I filled up a plastic cup of water from a big pitcher, fingers crossed she didn't notice that I had a water bottle at my table.

"Thanks! I did, I've made a couple other pairs, too," she responded while stirring milk into her coffee.

Regular milk, I noted. I can get over that.

"Wow, cool. Is it a bunch of pairs of jeans?" I tried to ask as calmly as possible. I would rather be mistaken as aloof than over-eager.

"Yeah, jeans and also a denim jacket, I sewed them together," she answered.

I realized how dumb my question was, what else would she have used to make patchwork denim pants? I also realized she had an accent. It sounded European, and not a Romance language. German, I thought, tentatively. I realized I hadn't said anything for maybe a second too long, so I put down my cup and looked at her for a second. Or up to her, I guess. She had a good few centimeters on me.

"You design clothes?" I asked, hoping to spark a longer conversation.

"Kind of. I'm really into fashion so I try to make some stuff, but I guess I'm not really a designer."

She said designer like it required some special certification. Like saying, "yeah, I kill people but I'm not a murderer."

"I think if you designed these, then you are a designer," gesturing towards her pants.

"Well, thanks. What about you, do you design anything?"

"I do," I said with a smile, "Of course you caught me on a day when everything I'm wearing is thrifted, but I've actually done some stuff with denim too."

"Damn, that's cool! What have you made?"

"I did some embroidery onto my denim jacket, kinda basic stuff but I like it. But I'm not a designer. I know I just said you were, but I'm an artist in another way."