Two moths fluttered towards us. One moth landed on the edge of her hat and one descended to the table in front of her. She hit the table, this time releasing numerous strands from the turtle clip, while the force jolted the china cups from their saucers and knocked the ladyfingers to the floor. “I’ve got you.” When she lifted her hand—the flattened body of a moth clung to the tablecloth, wrinkled and speckled like poplar leaves, its wings turned to dust beside the body.
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Amy LeBlanc
