The exhibit cases line an entire wall of her room.
“Lepidoptera,” she informs me.
“Are nets employed?”
“Usually. Certain specimens drop into the killing jar unaided, though.”
“Something draws them, I suppose.”
She edges closer, chin lifting, and my pristine mouthpart pierces the aperture of her lips. I drain her nectar before darting downstairs.
Fleeing the house by an open window, I cross the garden, archaic forces aroused within me, and avoiding the treacherous allure of lampposts aglow like moons in the deserted street, I flit off, both lightsome and beguiled, into the vast, benignant refuge of the night.