The Real Rainbow Connection
Fiction by Linda McMullen
I catch the beginning of The Muppet Movie as I flip through the channels, and, while Kermit philosophizes about rainbows, I try to decide what to do about my butterfly.
I imagine a world in which its wings never spawned.
And another in which it retreats to stillness forever.
I set the remote down. Aaron might have frowned, his mouth forming an obdurate horizon… but he has a work event, and they usually go late. I nestle into his microsuede couch cushions.
The website says that the butterfly is smaller than a grape. That I can’t possibly feel it. But there’s a faint wave that ripples like nerves or excitement but is neither.
Kermit’s calming voice washes over me. I pull the fleece blanket that Aaron normally folds and drapes over the back of the couch onto me. It’s blue, gray, and green, and generally smells like Tide. Breathe in, breathe out. The fabric undulates like the faint waves in Kermit’s pond.
It’s a swamp, says Aaron’s voice in my head.
Not very poetic, my inner monologue returns.
Are you advocating for lyricism at the expense of accuracy? Aaron’s voice responds.
He’s a lawyer. At parties I say – with a wink – that that’s an explanation but not an excuse. We met at a grad school mixer – he was working on his JD while I tried to become a master of social work. I tell those same partygoers that my head faltered, but my heart never did. Untrue: I experienced a complete failure of nerve. I didn’t have my life together; how could I set myself up as someone who could help other people reinvent theirs?
So now I’ve embraced substitute teaching until, as Aaron says, I sort out my priorities. Which – after our long, equivocal talk this afternoon – is what I promised I’d be doing this evening.
Butterfly.
The thought ebbs, then reappears out of nowhere. Like Gonzo.
My phone buzzes; Aaron’s number flashes up, and I answer. “I’m regressing,” I announce, cheerfully. But there’s no answering baritone. I hear the rustling of fabric, the tinkling of expensive glassware. A woman’s voice – her words indistinct but resonant. Aaron’s laugh.
“Hello?” My voice sounds tinny. Even to me.
More sounds of revelry but no answer. I hang up and tuck the blanket more closely around me. And that’s when a waxy pink spot on it catches my eye.
I’m no expert on Revlon, L’Oréal, Maybelline, but the fact is that I discovered their various mauve and berry hues, and never looked back. The rosy fleck on this blanket smacks of flamingo.
Butterfly.
The thought stops me from suddenly going all Miss Piggy on Aaron’s ass.
But…my mind lingers on her. Piggy might have been self-absorbed and occasionally distractible, but she never allowed anyone else to define her.
I wish I had her resolution. I don’t really have a burning…
But I do know what I don’t want.
On the screen, Kermit and Fozzie are movin’ right along. And so, I think, dumping the blanket onto the floor and gathering up my things, shall I.
I imagine a world in which its wings never spawned.
And another in which it retreats to stillness forever.
I set the remote down. Aaron might have frowned, his mouth forming an obdurate horizon… but he has a work event, and they usually go late. I nestle into his microsuede couch cushions.
The website says that the butterfly is smaller than a grape. That I can’t possibly feel it. But there’s a faint wave that ripples like nerves or excitement but is neither.
Kermit’s calming voice washes over me. I pull the fleece blanket that Aaron normally folds and drapes over the back of the couch onto me. It’s blue, gray, and green, and generally smells like Tide. Breathe in, breathe out. The fabric undulates like the faint waves in Kermit’s pond.
It’s a swamp, says Aaron’s voice in my head.
Not very poetic, my inner monologue returns.
Are you advocating for lyricism at the expense of accuracy? Aaron’s voice responds.
He’s a lawyer. At parties I say – with a wink – that that’s an explanation but not an excuse. We met at a grad school mixer – he was working on his JD while I tried to become a master of social work. I tell those same partygoers that my head faltered, but my heart never did. Untrue: I experienced a complete failure of nerve. I didn’t have my life together; how could I set myself up as someone who could help other people reinvent theirs?
So now I’ve embraced substitute teaching until, as Aaron says, I sort out my priorities. Which – after our long, equivocal talk this afternoon – is what I promised I’d be doing this evening.
Butterfly.
The thought ebbs, then reappears out of nowhere. Like Gonzo.
My phone buzzes; Aaron’s number flashes up, and I answer. “I’m regressing,” I announce, cheerfully. But there’s no answering baritone. I hear the rustling of fabric, the tinkling of expensive glassware. A woman’s voice – her words indistinct but resonant. Aaron’s laugh.
“Hello?” My voice sounds tinny. Even to me.
More sounds of revelry but no answer. I hang up and tuck the blanket more closely around me. And that’s when a waxy pink spot on it catches my eye.
I’m no expert on Revlon, L’Oréal, Maybelline, but the fact is that I discovered their various mauve and berry hues, and never looked back. The rosy fleck on this blanket smacks of flamingo.
Butterfly.
The thought stops me from suddenly going all Miss Piggy on Aaron’s ass.
But…my mind lingers on her. Piggy might have been self-absorbed and occasionally distractible, but she never allowed anyone else to define her.
I wish I had her resolution. I don’t really have a burning…
But I do know what I don’t want.
On the screen, Kermit and Fozzie are movin’ right along. And so, I think, dumping the blanket onto the floor and gathering up my things, shall I.
About the Writer
Linda McMullen is a wife, mother, diplomat, and homesick Wisconsinite. Her short stories and the occasional poem have appeared in over one hundred fifty literary magazines.
